Save (a Wish for) Me
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: After Isaac wishes he had a father like Sheriff Stilinski, he and Stiles magically swap lives. While Isaac enjoys the protective, parental love of a good man, Stiles experiences the dark home life Isaac has kept secret all these years. [ {AU} Contains: child abuse, whump, angst, and coarse language.]
1. Chapter 1: Wish

_**This is just an idea that popped into my head when I woke up one morning, and I wanted to run with it. Isaac wishes he had a father like Stiles' father. When that wish comes true, the dark secrets of the Lahey house are revealed, Isaac enjoys parental affection, and Stiles faces danger at the hands of a man who calls himself "father."**_

 **Warnings: this fic contains child abuse (which may be upsetting to some readers) and coarse/offensive language - both of which are courtesy of Mr. Lahey.**

 **Don't forget to leave a review, lovelies!**

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 **Save a Wish For Me**

 **Chapter One: Wish**

Isaac had his doubts.

They shouldn't have been in the woods so late. The sun was setting over the horizon; the tall trees cast long eerie shadows that blotted out the last golden light of day, smothering the sun's luminescence with their sinister limbs. It would be dark soon. His father would begin wondering where he was, pondering a million delinquent scenarios as to his whereabouts – none of which dimly reflected the truth or Isaac's character. He could _not_ be late.

Isaac voiced his concerns to the other boys. A twig snapped under his sneaker, and he ducked under a low branch. They walked single-file down an obscure path Isaac suspected wasn't actually a path at all. Stiles was leading, forcing his way through central California foliage. This had been _his_ ridiculous scheme after all. He was guiding them on another one of his 'treasure hunts.' Sometimes he would get on these obsessive kicks, fueled by his ADHD and hyperactive imagination, after he had learned about such and such a mystery or urban legend – either online or through local oral Beacon Hills folklore. He'd organize elaborate, but often impractical, searches and investigations, and drag his friends along with him.

Isaac never should have allowed Scott to talk him into coming. "What are we looking for again? I really can't be late tonight."

Scott, who was just ahead of him, tossed Isaac a sympathetic smile over his right shoulder. He held back a branch so Isaac could advance safely. Stiles didn't glance back. He continued to forge ahead, his lambent umber eyes alert, scouting the area and following some visceral sense of direction. He swiftly rolled his eyes and held in a frustrated groan. "You said that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that. We get it: you don't want to be late. We'll get you home on time, don't worry. Stop being such a wet blanket. We're looking for an old abandoned mine that's supposed to be cursed. This is an exciting adventure – so _stop ruining it._ "

Stiles' voice was sharp and cutting, his last remark biting. Isaac shrank back. His mouth slammed closed with a click, and he shut up. Far worse insults and threats had been hurled at Isaac in his short life – by voices much angrier, frightening, and dangerous than Stiles' – but he had never gotten used to the sting of words. The verbal anger that ripped through him, cleaving flesh from bone, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and alone. Why did Stiles always speak to him so abruptly and sarcastically? He never spoke that way to Scott or Lydia. He never even used that tone with Jackson Whittemore. Isaac thought they were supposed to be friends.

The path widened and opened into a small clearing. Scott fell back to walk beside Isaac. That small, supportive smile was on his lips again. His eyes were warm and affectionate, two pools of melted chocolate. Scott often looked at Isaac like that, apologetic and compassionate, like Isaac was a battered puppy he had discovered on the street. _Funny,_ Isaac thought, _that he's the one with the puppy-dog eyes._

When Scott looked at him like that, Isaac always felt naked. Like Scott had managed to penetrate the mask and peer into his soul, read the terrible secrets he kept hidden inside. And for a moment he would feel both terrified and relieved. For just a moment he believed Scott _knew._

But, of course, Scott didn't know. How could he? Isaac covered up the signs, crafted false explanations, poured forth lies easier than the truth. Hiding had become second nature. Yet, he chided himself, he needed to be more careful. He felt too relaxed around Scott, too comfortable. At times he even fooled himself into believing he could tell Scott anything. He needed to keep his guard up. He couldn't slip up. Even if Scott didn't know the truth, he suspected something. Could sense the darkness buried within. A strong scent or aura wafting off Isaac like the weak and sickly gazelle in the herd. An instinct: "This one is broken."

"My mom will kill me if I'm out past curfew," Scott empathized. "She's really strict when it comes to school nights."

"Yeah. My dad is too." Isaac didn't challenge Scott's word choice, though he doubted his friend had ever been afraid that his parent actually _could_ kill him over a minor indiscretion, like breaking curfew.

Ahead of them, Stiles disappeared into a line of trees. He whooped loudly. "There it is!" The mine shaft was located several yards from a still-flowing brook, gurgling softly in the quiet air. The opening was small and black, supported by cracked wooden beams that were so old they could have been a part of Noah's ark.

Stiles ducked inside. He emitted a low, appreciative whistle that echoed off the claustrophobic walls. "This is awesome!" he declared. Isaac and Scott paused at the entrance. They inspected the opening and shared a disapproving look. Scott's eyebrow was cocked so high on his forehead it almost reached his hairline. Isaac could see his own uncertainty mirrored on Scott's face. He glanced up at the sky. The light was steadily diminishing and stars dotted the first navy swatches of night. Around them the woods quieted, daytime receding into hidden knolls and safe havens, and slowly came alive to its second self. Nocturnal voices and whispers: the song of crickets, the hooting of an owl, the throaty croak of a self-important toad announcing his presence.

Isaac peered into the cave again. In the shadows he could just make out the contrast of Stiles' fair skin, eerily pale in the dark pit, like a phantom haunting the abyss. A ghost searching for other ghosts who had come before him. Goosepimples prickled Isaac's arms. Beneath his cotton sweater he felt suddenly cold. _What if there's something in there?_ he thought nervously. The logical part of his brain told him it was highly unlikely, considering the amount of noise Stiles was making. If anything was living in the cave – a bear or a coyote – it would have revealed itself before now. Another, louder voice in his mind, drenched in primal superstitions and childish fears, awakened in the absence of light and civilization, dreaded unexplained phenomena – restless spirits and malignant demons, monsters without faces or names.

Isaac wanted to leave. He wanted Stiles to smarten up and come out of there. It wasn't safe; it was getting late; they shouldn't be in the woods at night. He wanted to say as much, but he kept his mouth shut. Stiles had made his stance on Isaac's opinions perfectly clear.

Thankfully Scott, whose best friend status granted him immunity and an all-access pass to freely speak his mind, insisted: "Stiles, this isn't a good idea. That shaft looks ancient. It's definitely not safe. Come on. It's getting dark. Let's go home."

Stiles had underestimated the time it would take them to reach the mine, drawing as he was from old country maps from the library, which made the entire area seem smaller. He hadn't expected to lose the light of the sun, and now he found himself grossly unprepared. He had been so excited at the prospect of a haunted mine, he hadn't even thought to bring a flashlight – or anything. _Idiot._ The first stirrings of apprehension fluttered uneasily in his stomach. This _had_ been a bad idea, he realized, but he didn't want to lose face. He had to keep going.

Stiles placed his palm flat against the rugged wall and fumbled ahead. He took another step forward cautiously, using his right foot to test for dips or holes. He could see a dim, blue light in the distance, as though at the end of a long tunnel. "I want to have a look around. Just come in. It's fine. I-AH!"

Stiles screamed.

Any concerns Isaac and Scott had for their own safety were superseded by their concern for Stiles. The boys rushed into the mine. Scott fetched his cellphone from his jeans' pocket and used the screen to see by. Stiles was sitting on the floor on his butt, his shoulders slouched forward. His eyes were wide with shock. He clutched at his head. He had knocked his face on a low-hanging beam he hadn't noticed. The blow had both frightened and injured him. Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from a cut on his forehead. The red rivulets matted in his eyebrow and trickled into his eye. The air in the mine was close and stale, smelling thickly of dust and copper.

Stiles was a gruesome sight. Scott handed his cell to Isaac, and commanded him to keep the light trained on Stiles. He removed his hoodie and then his t-shirt. He balled up the cloth and pressed it to Stiles' injury. "Ow," the boy whimpered.

"Stay still and hold that against your cut," Scott ordered. He crouched down so they were eye-level. He stared into Stiles' pupils, testing his vision with his finger.

"Dude, this would be so less awkward if you weren't half naked."

Scott rolled his eyes. "I don't think you have a concussion." He stood and pulled his sweater over his head, covering his bare torso. "We need to get you out of here. Careful now. Steady." Stiles attempted to climb to his feet on his own, but careened heavily. Isaac reached out, but Scott was the one to catch him. He wrapped Stiles' arm around his neck and started toward the exit.

The light from Scott's cell phone glinted off an object on the ground. Isaac stooped to pick it up. It was a penny – smooth and cool in his hand. A small circle nestled against his lifeline. He flipped it over, checking for a date. It was branded 1926. "Isaac, help me!" Scott directed. He had taken charge, slipping seamlessly into an authoritative role. Isaac thought he was a good person to have around in an emergency.

"Right!" Isaac pocketed the penny, and rushed forward to help. He put Stiles' other arm around his shoulders, and between the two of them, they carried Stiles' weight and helped him stagger out into the fresh air.

Stiles' eyes focused blearily on the surrounding woods. In the dark, and from this position, the area looked unfamiliar and alien, as if they had left one forest when they entered the cave and emerged into a different world altogether. "Alright, Stiles, which way?"

His head was pounding. Stiles freed his left arm from around Isaac's neck and pressed a fist to his aching temple. The chilly air rushed him all at once, and briefly arrested his lungs. Scott's brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Stiles took a deep breath. "But we, uh, have a problem."

At first Isaac didn't catch his meaning, but Scott understood immediately. He sighed and asked for his cellphone back. Isaac handed it to him. Scott lead Stiles farther from the mine, and settled him onto the smooth grass. "You realize I have to call your dad, right?"

Stiles groaned. He laid back on the grass, staring up at the night sky, and sighed dramatically. "That cave _is_ cursed," he complained. Isaac realized then that they were lost. Scott gestured for him to sit down. He stepped to his left then swivelled to his right, pointing his phone first east, then west. Mercifully he had a few bars. "Might as well get comfy. We're going to be here a while."

Sheriff Stilinski reached them forty minutes later. He used an old service road he knew, which led to an old quarry not far from the mine. He was dressed in his full uniform and gripped a heavy-duty flashlight in his left hand. In his right, he held a hunting rifle. Two deputies flanked his sides, both carrying flashlights; one with a rifle, the other with a first-aid kit.

The boys were huddled under a tree, attempting to stay warm. Stiles had stopped bleeding, but his face was ashen, bleached by the blood loss and stark glare of the flashlights. As pallid as the crescent moon peeking through the trees. They stood when the officers approached – Stiles needing help up. He smiled sheepishly at his father. "Hi, Dad."

Sheriff Stilinski strode to his son. His boots were bulky and heavy. He stared at Stiles for a moment, his face portraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he grasped the boy's chin in his fingers and turned his head so he could inspect the injury. Stiles accepted this in calm silence. The sheriff released Stiles' face and stepped back. He quickly scanned the other two boys. His expression was stern. Isaac cringed back, waiting for the shouting he knew would come, the discipline. Punishment for their foolishness. Skin slapped red to match the blood clotted on Stiles' head.

Instead Sheriff Stilinski's face softened. He sighed and shook his head. "Not exactly where I expect to find three teenage boys on a Monday night. This is more of a Friday night activity," he joked. He shrugged off his heavy sheriff's jacket and draped it around his son's shoulders. The hand that had held Stiles' chin gently cupped the boy's cheek, then moved up to ruffle his tangled hair. "What am I going to do with you?" he admonished, but his voice was infused with affection.

"Let me off with a warning?" Stiles suggested hopefully.

"Fat chance, kiddo. You're grounded – for starters. But for right now, let's get you home." Sheriff Stilinski placed his hand protectively on Stiles' back and led him towards the car. Isaac noticed how Stiles' shoulders visibly relaxed at his father's touch, and the color began to creep back into his face. "Come on boys," the sheriff called. "We'll get some hot chocolate into you, and then I'll give you a ride home."

Isaac stepped into the Lahey house an hour and a half past curfew. He was late and – to make matters worse – he had been dropped off by a police vehicle. When the car parked out front, he caught a brief glimpse of a man's silhouette peering through the window before it disappeared. Sheriff Stilinski honked the horn as he pulled away from the curb; Isaac made an effort to smile and wave back cheerily. Nope, nothing wrong here.

His father was waiting for him at the front door. "What time do you call this?" the man barked. His words slurred. Isaac could smell the alcohol on his father's breath. A foul-smelling aftershave he drenched himself in almost nightly. Isaac choked on the stench. Empty bottles littered the small side table by the La-Z-Boy. The television was turned to a rerun of the previous night's ballgame. How long had his father been at it?

"I know it's late. I'm sorry, Dad. I-"

The first hit connected with his cheek. Isaac felt the curves of his father's knuckles jarring against bone. He stumbled backward. "When I set rules, I damn well expect them to be obeyed."

"I know. D-dad, I-"

"After all I do for you, goddamn ungrateful bastard. Either you drag your lazy ass home on time, or I'll fix it so your ass can't go anywhere. Showing up late _and_ in a goddamn police car. You bring the fucking pigs to my door? What have you been saying?" Mr. Lahey advanced menacingly. Isaac stepped back instinctively, backing into the wall and nearly knocking over a lamp.

"Nothing. I wo-"

"You're a goddamn punk. Thank God your mother's in her grave, so she can't see what a goddamn prick her son turned out to be. Goddamn roughneck out there with those delinquent deadbeats you call friends. Causing trouble. Think you're tough, huh?! You and those goddamn fags!" Spittle sprayed Isaac's face as his father's ranting turned into shouting.

His father grabbed his arm. Calloused fingers dug sharply into the boy's skin. Isaac wondered vaguely if his father purposefully didn't cut his nails. "No, w-we d-didn't...I-" Isaac tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come. Fear stole his voice. His father would never have listened to an explanation anyway.

Mr. Lahey struck Isaac's face again. He knew tonight's beating was going to be bad. The abuse was always worse if his father had been drinking. The alcohol may have impaired his faculties, but it did nothing to lessen the strength of his blows. Tonight he was so mad he wasn't careful about hitting only the areas Isaac could hide. Tomorrow there would be bruises he couldn't explain, and he'd be forced to stay home from school.

Isaac cowered futilely against the barrage of punches and kicks. How intimately familiar were the shape of his father's hands, the curve of his knee, the power of his feet. Isaac knew every contour of his father's body in a way other kids never would. It was useless to deflect the blows, so he curled in on himself, trying to divert the damage from his vital organs. He tried to tune out the profanities spewing fusillade from his father's mouth. He tried to block out the names his father called him, tried not to let them affect him; he tried his best to focus on something else, anything else, to turn off his mind altogether, but the pain won out.

After Mr. Lahey had exhausted himself, he made one final comment that maybe next time his son would listen and get home on goddamn time. He tottered over to his chair, opened a fresh bottle of beer, and reclined back. He would spend all night there, vegging in front of the TV. Cheers erupted from the speakers as a Red Sox player rounded home plate.

Isaac was sprawled on the floor, assessing the damage done to his body. He ran through his mental checklist, moving his extremities by degrees and scanning for broken bones. His ribs were definitely bruised, if not cracked. He decided he should try to make it up to his room. He didn't want to spend the night on the living room floor, listening to his father slurping and belching, the oblivious crowds on TV delighting in trivial games while a boy fed on his own blood in his mouth.

Isaac dragged himself up soundlessly, so as not to disturb his father. Mr. Lahey was indifferent to his son's existence. Isaac crawled up the stairs, then limped painfully to the bathroom. He avoided his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and tried to wash up as best he could. He shoved his hand into his pants' pocket. His fingers brushed thin metal. He extracted the coin and laughed bitterly. "Right, my lucky penny."

Isaac unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them to his ankles. He stepped out of them, urinated, and shuffled to his room. He was in too much pain to undress further. He carefully lowered himself onto his bed, feeling every agonizing inch of his six feet one inch. He rested on top of his blankets, knowing even the soft touch of his sheets would be too much for his sore body.

Isaac turned the coin in his long fingers. He held it close to the window, examining it by the light of the moon shining through his open curtains. The stars winked at him conspiratorially. The penny gleamed brightly, as though it was freshly minted and not nearly a century old. Isaac tested its weight in his palm. It was a wheat penny, made mostly of copper, heavier than the zinc pennies created in his lifetime. Instead of the Lincoln Memorial or the Union Shield, the back of the coin featured only the words "ONE CENT United States of America." The font reminded Isaac of the words he used to write in the mud with a stick when he was a child. On the front, there was good old Honest Abe, with his regal forehead and noble chin. But, wait, something was off. The portrait on the coin was backwards: Abraham Lincoln _always_ faced right, but on this penny he faced left.

"Weird. This penny must have been printed incorrectly." Did that make it lucky or unlucky? His mother had told him you could wish on pennies.

Isaac reflected on the day's events. He tried to suppress the memories of tonight's abuse, still too vivid and fresh, repeating in his mind like a sports replay stuck on loop. He thought of the billions of people in the world, of the trillion desires they each had. He thought of the endlessness of the universe and the finite realm that was Beacon Hills. He thought of his own insignificant life swirling among the cosmos and his own feeble prayers.

He thought of Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski. He thought of the man's kind eyes, the color of sea spray as ocean waves crashed against the shore. He thought of the way those eyes looked at his son. He thought of the powerful yet tender quality of his voice, of his hands strong yet gentle, of his high forehead wrinkled with concern and his strong jaw wrinkled with a mixture of laugh and frown lines. He imagined the sheriff rushing to his son's aid, stepping through the tree-line: the tall, dark silhouette bringing light and safety, like a mythical hero.

Isaac curled his fingers over the penny and closed his eyes. "I wish I had a father like Sheriff Stilinski," he whispered, with only the stars and the tiny, copper portrait of Abraham Lincoln to hear him.


	2. Chapter 2: Granted

**Chapter Two: Granted**

Isaac woke before dawn. The house was dark and still. He was pleasantly warm and comfortable. He turned onto his side, pulling the sheets and matching plush comforter up to his chin. A safe cocoon of flannel and his own body heat. He closed his eyes and released a deep exhale, trying to return to peaceful slumber. It wasn't often he slept through the night. He had been having a wonderful, lovely dream, the details of which were already beginning to fade, but in which he had felt happy and protected. He didn't want to face the day yet. He wanted to hide in the night, where he could pretend this life wasn't his.

If he was brutally honest, most days Isaac wished he would go to sleep one night and never wake up again.

Down the hall, a toilet flushed and a door opened. Isaac heard the _slap-slap_ padding of barefeet and a sonorous yawn that could only belong to a man. The stairs creaked as the early-riser descended and made his way into the kitchen to make coffee. While he waited for the kettle to boil, Mr. Lahey would turn on the television, letting it drone in the background while he prepared breakfast and cleaned up the previous night's beer bottles. He couldn't, of course, leave them sitting out where unexpected guests and prying eyes would see them. Isaac had the sense his father thought he would try to steal the bottles, although he had no idea why the man would think that or what he thought Isaac would do with them. Hoard them? Refill them? Turn them in for recycling and collect the five cent deposit? Urinate into one and hide it among his full bottles? Shatter the end and use the jagged glass to slash his father's throat?

Isaac waited in the silence. He strained his ears, but none of the usual sounds followed. No TV noise, no clinking bottles, no clattering pans. He heard a cupboard door open and close softly, the languid hiss of the percolator. _That's strange,_ he thought. His father normally only drank instant coffee. And, now that he thought about it, his father _never_ walked around barefoot. He always wore slippers or shoes around the house. He had such a strong aversion to feet, he wore socks to bed.

Isaac sat suddenly upright in bed. The blinds over the window were shut, but even in the dark he could perceive shapes. Objects in weird places, the bulking frames of furniture he didn't own, the walls a greater distance apart than they should be. Isaac scrambled out of bed. He fumbled for a light-switch, knocking into a desk chair and stubbing his toe. He finally found it beside the door. A door that was positioned too far to the left.

Light flooded the room. Isaac blinked away the temporary blindness. He glanced around the bedroom: blue walls, a double bed, a wide desk, a narrow bookcase, a mahogany dresser with lamp and a matching nightstand with a taller lamp. The room looked vaguely familiar – Isaac was positive he had been in it before – but it wasn't _his_ room. Yet there was a poster of his favorite band – Vampire Weekend – tacked above the bed. And that was _definitely_ his bookbag lying on top the desk, his sneakers discarded askew on the floor, and his ragged red duffel in the corner. A burgundy Beacon Hills High School banner was pinned to the wall, and a shelf boasted an impressive collection of CDs, vintage records, and movies, all of which suited Isaac's tastes.

Why were his possessions in someone else's room? Why was _he_ in someone else's room?

Isaac knew he had fallen asleep in his own bed, in his own room. After a particularly brutal beating at his father's hands. How had he gotten here? As Isaac struggled to remember the previous night, he became aware of another difference: he _felt_ different, better...good. He glanced down at his body. He was clad only in a pair of red plaid Calvin Klein sleep pants, softer and nicer than anything he had ever owned. A stifled gasp of shock escaped his throat.

Not only was his naked torso bruise-free, as if the previous night's abuse had been magically erased, but his scars were healed as well. Isaac raced to the mirror and checked his back for the pink, puckered flesh and red welts from old lashings. The skin on his back was as smooth and clean as a baby's. Isaac turned and faced his reflection, carefully examining every inch. His scars were gone, _all of them_ except, he noted, the one on his elbow that hadn't resulted from abuse but from wiping out on his bicycle when he had learned to ride without training wheels, and a small line that crept along his jaw – a lacrosse injury from only a few months prior.

Isaac's face was fuller, his hair lusher and silkier, his muscles lean but well-sculpted. He flexed. Well-nourished skin rippled over strong muscles and tendons. He ran his tongue over his teeth: all his pearly whites were whole and accounted for, including the one his father had knocked out last spring and the tooth he had chipped when his head had been roughly smashed against the coffee table. He made a fist with each hand. His fingers lined up perfectly. He extended his left thumb up and down, surprised by the fluidity of the motion and the way it aligned with his other digits. He'd broken his thumb three years ago, trying to defend himself from his father's belt, and it had been crooked ever since.

 _What the hell is going on?_

Isaac looked at his reflection again. A pretty, pleased flush painted his cheeks. Holy Handsome, Batman! He was _hot._

Isaac heard the refrigerator door open and close. He thought it was time he confronted the mystery man whose house he suddenly found himself in. The notion that he had been stolen out of his bed in the middle of the night presented itself loudly. How else could he have gotten here? But who would take him, and _why?_ Why go through the effort of bringing his belongings?

And a kidnapping couldn't explain how all his scars and past injuries had been miraculously and totally healed – as if they had never existed. Maybe he had been kidnapped by a genius scientist who had invented a mystical healing serum and needed subjects to test its effectiveness.

Isaac scoffed. _Yeah. Riiight._

Isaac tested the door knob. It was unlocked. A good sign, he hoped. He opened the door slowly, with both hands. The groaning of the hinges was almost inaudible, but to Isaac's ears the noise reverberated in the silence. When he had drawn the door halfway open, he paused and listened. The person downstairs didn't seem to have heard. Faint, indistinguishable rattles and clinks continued as the man went about his morning routine.

Isaac shifted into stealth mode. Quiet like a ninja. He tiptoed down the hallway to the staircase. The front door, with its innocuous welcome mat, was visible from the top of the stairs. Isaac considered making a run for it. He knew he could reach the door before the mystery man even realized he was there. He just needed to make it to the street, and then...what? He had no idea what was going on, or if he was in any kind of trouble. Who was in the kitchen? Whose house was he in? He _needed_ to know. His curiosity was too great.

Isaac crept down the stairs – light and soundless as a shadow. He'd had years of practice, ghosting quietly through his house, feigning his own non-existence, to avoid his father's wrath. Hiding in silence.

As he descended, Isaac was once again struck with the overwhelming sense of familiarity of the house. He _knew_ he had been here before, had stood in this exact entryway, waiting. But there were subtle differences he couldn't quite pinpoint, an additional or missing item, a rearranged rug or chair, that kept him from remembering.

Isaac turned a corner and peered into the kitchen. Sheriff Stilinski was leaning back against the counter. His left palm laid flat on the cool surface behind him; his right hand gripped the handle of a plain red porcelain mug. Steam rose, dancing and disappearing in the air. The tips of the sheriff's fingers were pale pink. The kitchen was balmy with the scent of roasted coffee grounds and a fresh, damp morning smell, like dew and cold sweat.

Sheriff Stilinski wore a faded grey University of California t-shirt and blue cotton pajama bottoms with pictures of little handcuffs. Isaac's sudden shock, rendering him dumb – a deer in headlights – had less to do with finding the sheriff in the kitchen, and resulted more from the realization he had never seen the sheriff dressed casually. He had never seen the man out of uniform – almost as if, he believed on some subconscious level, the man had been born wearing official police attire – let alone in something as intimate as loungewear.

The sheriff looked so...so... _human._

Sheriff Stilinski also seemed surprised to see Isaac. His articulate eyebrows arched parallel, wrinkling his forehead. He sipped his coffee casually, appraising Isaac over the rim of his mug. "You're up early," he commented.

Isaac glanced left, then right, surveying the cozy narrow kitchen. The beige walls, framed landscape photographs of forests and countrysides, wooden replicas of fish with gaping mouths, a cluttered dining table functioning as a desk, with four curved matching chairs like the kind on television sitcoms. The kind belonging to a perfect nuclear family unit, sitting down together to enjoy a meal made by a doting mother's benevolent moisturized hands.

Recognition slammed into Isaac like a runaway big-rig. _Stupid moron._ Why hadn't he recognized the house sooner? He had been here a dozen times with Scott and Stiles. Studied upstairs in Stiles' bedroom, watched movies on the big screen in the living room, helped make cookies in the kitchen for a bake-sale to raise money for new lacrosse equipment. He had even spent the night once a couple months ago, when things were really bad at home, though Stiles hadn't known that. _This is Stiles' house._ Okay, he knew _where_ he was, but _how_ had he gotten here? "Where's Stiles?" Isaac asked.

Sheriff Stilinski's eyes crinkled with confusion. "Stiles?" He frowned, placed his mug on the counter, and sighed. "Isaac, you know I don't mind if you want to have friends over, and if they happen to crash here for the night every once in a while, that's fine. But you know my rules about sleepovers on school nights. You boys stay up too late playing video games, and then the next morning you're too tired to pay attention in class. I like Stiles, I really do. He's a good kid. He's always welcome here. Just ask next time. What if-"

"Stiles isn't here." It wasn't a question. A kind of awareness was dawning, barely formed in the back of Isaac's mind.

"Oh." Sheriff Stilinski paused. He and Isaac stared at each other for a long moment. The boy seemed puzzled and slightly perturbed, asking about his friend out-of-the-blue. _Must have been having a bad dream of some kind_. _Still half-asleep undoubtedly_. The sheriff lifted his mug and drank deeply. He grimaced at the coffee's tepidity. "Why don't you have a shower and get ready for school," he finally suggested. "When you come back down, I'll have breakfast ready for you."

"Okay."

Isaac considered skipping the shower, feeling odd about the entire situation and stripping naked in someone else's house. But he felt sticky and flustered, and decided a shower was exactly what he needed. He undressed, stepped into the dual bathtub, and cranked up the hot water. It rained upon his slender body, invigorating and cleansing, relaxing his tense muscles. He lathered up with an Axe body wash he assumed was his, appreciating more fully his creamy, unmarred skin. Isaac closed his eyes and groaned in euphoria. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a painless shower of any length. After five minutes, his father was usually screaming at him to hurry up and stop wasting the goddamn water.

If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

Isaac allowed himself a full twenty minutes, before he started to feel extravagant and guilty. His previous discomfort settled in as he stepped out into a cloud of steam and towelled off. This wasn't his house.

Isaac went into the bedroom. He opened several drawers. Jeans, shirts, socks, boxers – all were his size and style. They were not expensive clothes, but trendy and comfortable. Nicer, at any rate, than the practical, full sleeved, baggy-legged apparel his father usually purchased: cheap, sensible, and plain, so as not to attract attention and to conceal the bruises. Isaac hunted in the closet and found a wine-colored wool cardigan with small brown buttons. He slipped this over a white crew-neck with three quarter sleeves, added a black belt to his slim-cut Levi jeans, and finished the effect with a pair of black Chuck Taylors he found in the closet.

He sat on the bed, and finished tying the laces. When he looked up, he spotted, hanging neatly between his other clothes, a familiar red jersey. His number, 14, was stamped on the front in bold white letters under the words "BEACON HILLS." Same as it had always been. His number was printed on the back as well, but where it should have read "LAHEY," the name "STILINSKI" was written in brazen, unmistakable typeface.

"What...?" Isaac remembered the previous night. He had fallen asleep with the penny in his hand. The lucky penny with the reversed Abraham Lincoln that he had found in Stiles' "cursed" mine. He had made a wish. He had wished he had a father like Sheriff Stilinski.

Apparently the universe had taken him seriously.

The smell of pancakes wafted up to him. His mouth watered. "Isaac!" Stilinski called. "Breakfast is ready! Come get it while it's warm!"

Isaac picked a photograph off the desk. It was encased in a simple polystyrene frame: 4 inches by 6 inches. It was a selfie. The boy's arm stretched to capture his own smiling face, the crooked full-lipped smile exposing his top teeth, and that of the older gentleman beside him. The man's arm was thrown around his shoulders, and they were both laughing. A father-and-son bonding moment. Isaac was only mildly surprised the picture depicted Sheriff Stilinski and himself; a photo he had no knowledge of ever taking but, apparently, had in this alternate reality.

"I wished Sheriff Stilinski was my father, and now it's happened..." Isaac smiled slightly and then broke into great, guffawing laughter. It had worked. It had actually worked. Of the millions, if not billions, of wishes he had prayed every night for years, _this_ was the one that had been granted. Ludicrous. Stiles' father was now _his_ father.

 _Stiles._

The laughter died on Isaac's lips. If he was now living in Stiles' house, sleeping in Stiles' bed, was son to Stiles' father, then...where was Stiles?


	3. Chapter 3: Lahey

**Chapter Three: Lahey**

Stiles groaned. He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut tighter against the bright daylight pouring into the room. His throat was dry and scratchy; his mouth tasted like rusty metal and bad morning breath. He smacked his lips, debating whether a cold drink of water was worth the effort of getting out of bed.

"Stiles, get up! You're going to be late for school!"

"Five more minutes," he mumbled. Speech was surprisingly laborious. The words painfully constricted his windpipe. He coughed – soundless and parched. He imagined the scene in the Halloween movie "Hocus Pocus," when Billy the zombie cuts open his stitched lips and wheezes out moths and a thick cloud of dust. That was exactly how his throat felt. _I'm probably coming down with a cold or something,_ he suspected. The time he had spent outside the previous night, waiting for his father to arrive, shivering and injured, reclining on a damp forest floor on a chilly mid-November night, had likely weakened his immune system.

Stiles shifted positions again. He couldn't seem to get comfortable. There was a dull but persistent pounding in his head. His entire body was sore, his limbs leaden and torpid. His very skin ached. He hadn't known skin _could_ ache. Last night he must have hurt himself worse than originally thought and was only now feeling it. Or maybe these were the aftereffects of a minor head-injury – a kind of neurological hangover. Maybe Dad would let him stay home from school today. If he thought Stiles was really sick, the sheriff would probably take the day off so he could monitor Stiles' health, or he might insist on driving Stiles to the hospital. His father was like that – overprotective.

Stiles thumped his pillow with his fist, trying to fluff it into shape. He was extremely particular about his pillow, and could only sleep with his own. His father humored this quirk with exceeding and endearing good-nature. He was careful to never disturb Stiles' pillow, and if it required cleaning he washed it meticulously by hand. On the rare occasions they went on trips or vacation, Sheriff Stilinski was always apt to ask, "Did you remember to pack your pillow, Stiles?"

The pillow under his head now felt odd. Disproportionate. Lumpy in all the wrong places. Flat as a pancake. It smelled different too – weird. Musty and sweaty, with a hint of iron.

This wasn't his pillow.

Stiles opened his eyes. The sunlight shining through the open window sent a sharp pain shooting through the back of his retinas and into his brain. There was a rust-colored stain next to his face, on an unfamiliar, stiff, bleached pillowcase. Had his wound reopened in the middle of the night? He sat up slowly, groggy and disoriented, and examined his surroundings. He was in a small, plain bedroom, meagerly furnished. The walls were an off-white and completely bare; the cramped closet was packed too full and random items had tumbled to the floor, wedging the door half-open. A broad mirror was attached to the dresser facing the bed – the only other piece of furniture apart from a nightstand with lamp. One corner of the glass was cracked – spiderweb fractures sprawling from a crater the size of a soccer ball. A frightened ghost-boy stared out at him: gossamer skin, pale and gaunt; dark circles, like graphite shadows, ringed wide moist eyes; bruises – the color of slate and spilled wine – splotched his forehead and neck; his lips were parted and quivering, the bottom one puffy and split, a garnet slit revealing the tissue within.

Stiles was bewildered and startled. With increasing horror, he realized he was staring at his own reflection.

 _What the hell happened to me? Where am I?_

 _Dad._ He needed to find his dad.

Stiles jumped out of bed. He moved too quickly and his vision swam queasily. His temples gave an irritated throb. Stiles clutched his head and stumbled forward. His hip grazed the corner of the dresser, causing an abnormal amount of pain in his side. He bit down a gasp and, with trembling fingers, gingerly rolled up his dingy t-shirt. His abdomen was a rainbow medley of bruises – dark purple and charcoal blue, indigo and scarlet, crimson ringed in a sickly green, burnt sienna and yellow-brown. Faded and fresh, in different stages of healing.

Stiles looked at his reflection again, studying it more closely. His reversed-self stared back at him tight-lipped and fearful. He looked like someone had used him as a personal punching-bag. Covered in dozens of injuries he couldn't account for. His body had been bruise-free yesterday morning – he was sure of it – and there was no way these injuries had resulted the previous night.

He ran through the day in his head, vainly attempting to match events to current circumstances. School had been relatively boring and uneventful, and lacrosse practice had been cut short because Coach Finstock had to leave early for an "appointment." Stiles had dragged Scott and Isaac on an adventure, and he had been injured in the mine – knocked his head on a beam. But that wound had only hurt his face, and was largely superficial. His father had cleaned the wound with a First Aid kit, and then had taken the boys to a local coffee shop for hot chocolate and donuts. Then Sheriff Stilinski had dropped off the boys – Isaac first, then Scott – and when they arrived home, had promptly grounded Stiles for two weeks and spouted his customary lecture about being careful, and blah, blah, blah. Most of which Stiles had tuned out. The sheriff's voice had lowered and grown distant. The moroseness Stiles couldn't bear to see had come into his father's eyes, and he had left the room, making lame excuses about being dirty and tired. He had showered and crawled into bed, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. No later than 10:30pm, he guessed.

Somehow during the night he had ended up here – wherever "here" was. Either he had experienced one intense fugue state and done some insane sleepwalking, or someone had removed him from his room – snuck in a window, crept up the stairs, drugged him to keep him from waking, and carried him off in the night. Said person had brought him to this room, and they had hurt him.

 _Why?_

Revenge against his father? Some ex-con looking to settle a score against Beacon Hills finest? Or had he been kidnapped by a deranged sicko, a psychotic axe-murderer with perverted delusions who would eventually chop him up and bury him under the porch? Or the cannibal-next-door, who wanted to fatten him up and eat him with chili and corn-bread? Or just your plain old, run-of-the-mill, bloodthirsty lunatic who would butcher him and sell his organs on the black market? Or trade him to the highest bidder on Craigslist? Slit his throat and try to magically implant into his corpse a dead relative's spirit or a reincarnated demigod, like a twisted episode of "Criminal Minds?"

Stiles needed to contact his father. If anyone could find him, it was Sheriff Stilinski. He must be worried sick about Stiles. Surely the minute he had noticed Stiles missing from his bed, the Jeep still parked in the front drive, he'd have sent half the department out searching for his son, posted an APB for all law-enforcement to keep their eyes peeled.

Unless...unless his abductor was using Stiles as leverage, coercing the sheriff into dubious deeds or holding him for ransom. (They didn't have much money, but his father had connections, had boxes of evidence that criminals might wish to see disappear.) Or maybe his father was in this house, hurt and bloody, another victim, feeding in to the psycho's hallucinations about male authority and families. A revenge-minded killer who wanted to see the sheriff suffer. Maybe his kidnapper had dispatched his father before taking Stiles, had repeatedly stabbed him while he slept, or beaten him to death with a baseball bat when the sheriff had come to check on Stiles in the middle of the night and found an intruder in his son's room.

Maybe his father was dead.

Panic ripped through Stiles. His breath caught in his throat, and his face tingled. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, of succumbing to an attack he might not be able to squelch. He needed to calm down. He wasn't sure of anything yet. There was no point in jumping to conclusions until he had more information. He needed to keep his head and be smart. This was no time to let his imagination run wild. _Don't panic. Don't panic. Just breathe._ He could get out of this. He needed to find a phone.

"Stiles!" a man hollered from below. "Get your goddamn ass out of bed before I come up there and drag you out!" _Yeah,_ Stiles thought sarcastically, _that really makes me want to get out of bed._

Stiles didn't recognize the deep, virile voice, but clearly the voice's owner was familiar with him. Was the speaker someone he knew, or some creepy stalker who had been watching him from the shadows? And why, he wondered, was this man trying to wake him up for school? Hardly typical kidnapper behavior. Stiles would run the first chance he got and never come back. Unless the man knew Stiles would have to return. Maybe his father was hidden away in the house, and if Stiles' didn't return from school... Definitely a psycho, Stiles decided. A maniac with deluded ideas that Stiles belonged to him, or something equally ridiculous. That was the theory he was going with.

Stiles gazed out the window. Maybe he could jump. He was on the second-story, the ground beneath his window nothing but a stretch of grassy yard. There were no drain-pipes or over-hangs, no trees or conveniently located sheds – nothing he could use to climb down. Nothing but hard, solid earth to break his fall. If the fall didn't seriously injure or even kill him (a broken neck or shattered spine, a fatal head injury), it would certainly incapacitate him enough to keep him from fleeing. A few broken bones, at least. The man downstairs was sure to notice his fall, and then he'd rush out and drag Stiles back inside, too broken and dazed to fight him off. He'd be completely at this guy's mercy.

He may only get one chance. Stiles had to wait, bide his time, save his energy and strength. He needed a plan. Watch for the perfect moment of opportunity, when his chances of success were highest. He couldn't screw this up.

"Stiles!" the man shouted again, strained and brusque, as if his patience were waning. "Get down here! _Now!_ "

Stiles decided it was time he confronted his mystery captor. The bedroom door was unlocked. The man either didn't believe Stiles would run, or he was confident that if Stiles tried anything, he would be able to stop him. Stiles stepped into a narrow hallway. Two other doors were open, revealing a bathroom and a master bedroom. A third and final door, located at the end of the hall, was closed. Stiles wondered again if he and his father had been taken together – the man holding a knife to his vulnerable, unconscious body and ordering the sheriff to drive. Forcing them into separate rooms... Unlikely, but possible. This entire situation was implausible and incredible! It shouldn't be happening, but evidently it was. He had to check. He had to be sure.

Stiles tiptoed down the hall and quietly turned the knob. It was unlocked. "Dad?" he whispered. He opened the door just enough to stick his head inside and peek into the room. It was another bedroom, larger and nicer than the one he had woken in. The walls were a relaxing ocean mist color, lined with wooden shelves boasting an impressive collection of sports trophies, medals, and memorabilia. The bed was perfectly and smoothly made, with navy jersey sheets and matching patchwork quilt. Tacked to the wall above the headboard was a poster of Uncle Sam declaring "I WANT YOU," and beside it, preserved in glass, was a signed Los Angeles Rams jersey. A set of barbells rested in a pyramid in the corner near a massive stereo. On top of the sound system rested a pair of well-worn boxing gloves and a football.

There was a solid oak chest of drawers along the adjoining wall. A full-length mirror stood next to it. There was a lipstick smudge on the glass – a pair of full, kissable Sweet Marsala lips – under which was written the name Tiffany and a phone number. The surface of the bureau was almost completely bare – no deodorants or combs, colognes or magazines, loose change or packaged condoms, or any of the other items one would expect to find in a room such as this. There was only a folded American flag, a framed photograph of a handsome young man in Army greens, and a set of dog-tags on a long silver chain.

The room was neat and tidy. Orderly. No one was inside. Stiles inspected the room in a split-second, ascertained its vacancy, and closed the door noiselessly. He hurried down the stairs. He didn't want the unknown man to come looking for him and find him snooping around. Stiles found his way into a simple kitchen: light wood cupboards with glass doors, a white counter cluttered with jars and cooking utensils, spices and appliances. The refrigerator was equally cluttered with magnets and papers – grocery lists, notes, coupons, and newspaper clippings – but devoid of personal touches, such as photos or postcards. The dining table was made to seat four, with matching chairs with flat pea-green cushions. An old-fashioned kettle steamed and puffed on the stove.

"Finally decided to get up, did you? Jesus H. Christ, you're not even dressed yet." The kettle squealed shrilly and the man turned his back to Stiles to reach for it. He poured scalding water into a stout white mug.

"I, uh..." Stiles glanced down at his body, surprised to find himself wearing someone else's pajamas. In all the confusion, he hadn't even noticed.

"You'll have to skip breakfast or you'll miss the bus. You don't have time to shower either. You better not be late again, or I swear to God." This directive and threat were uttered in a simple, casual string, as if the man had spoken the words often. There was a well-grained authority in his voice, stern and commanding, even when he spoke listlessly.

"Bus?"

The man stirred his coffee, tapped a spoon against his mug, and turned to face Stiles. He was clean-shaven, probably early fifties, with deep-sunken wrinkles carved into the skin around his pale lips and the corners of his eyes. His hair was curly and brown, but short and noticeably thinning. Behind wireless glasses – which gave him an air of intelligence – he had molten hazel eyes, under which hung thick pouches of flesh.

He sized Stiles up, his eyes lingering on the boy's neck. His glance was unhurried and indifferent, but Stiles noticed a baleful and cunning glint from within. "Today you'll need to wear that new turtleneck I bought you," the man commented breezily, sipping from his mug.

Even at closer proximity and a lower volume, the man's voice was foreign to Stiles, but his face was vaguely familiar, as if he had seen it before. In passing or on a street corner. One of those random, brief encounters in a small-town that are soon forgotten. The kitchen was redolent, too hot and dense with the smell of coffee and aftershave, beer and burnt toast, a dank terrene fragrance. Stiles spotted a pair of work boots sitting near the back door. They were caked to the heel in damp earth. Soil so dark it was almost black.

Like the kind his mother had been buried in.

Memories fired in Stiles' mind like flash bulbs – rapid and unbidden. Images clear and vivid, a parade of half-remembered recollections. An overcast day and the chance of rain. The moist aroma of earth. The color black – a glossy black coffin, red roses with black stain ribbons, black-suited mourners with black umbrellas at their sides, ladies in black dresses and high heels, a long black hearse. His father's liquid, turbid eyes, like a swampy pond. The single tear that had slipped out unheeded, but Stiles had seen it. He'd watched it glisten in the corner and slide silently down his father's bristled, unshaven cheek. Hushed whispers and "Amazing Grace," old hens clucking together, their repeated chorus, "The poor boy. His poor father. How will he raise him alone?" He had grabbed his father's hand – large and warm, tightly clasping his small one. Shutting out everything but goodbye and his father's touch, the sadness raw and new in his heart. A final "Amen," and then it was over. They didn't stay to see his mother's body lowered and covered, six feet deep and muddy, until the summer came and grass grew over top. New life would not be stopped.

His father had led him away, but Stiles looked back over his shoulder. One final glimpse of the box that held his mother. Standing over it, a tall man in stained work boots and a plaid, flannel coat. A shovel hoisted in his calloused hand. The sparse light reflected off his glasses, like a bright-lensed demon, and Stiles couldn't see his eyes. At his side was a boy Stiles' age, tall and lean with an unruly head of curly brunette hair, and big, melancholy eyes.

Isaac.

Stiles met him again – later, when he had grown up. A teenager, still tall and lean. Freshmen at Beacon Hills High, shared most of the same classes, both joined the lacrosse team – 14 to his 24 – sat in front of Scott in homeroom. They had become friends, but not the way Stiles and Scott were friends, oh no, too many secrets and too little communication for that. They had never spoken of that day at the cemetery. If Isaac remembered he never said; Stiles did his best to forget.

A second afternoon three months ago, after a particularly gruelling practice. Scott wanted burgers; Stiles wanted pizza. They invited Isaac to join them. He smiled and was about to accept, when a blue Sedan in the parking lot honked impatiently. The man behind the windshield – brown hair and rimless glasses, his voice deep and imperious – ordered his son into the car. Isaac's face changed: misery and years-old rancour, an internal struggle between desire and obedience, and...fear. Stiles saw it all in an instant, before Isaac's face closed and the sweet, fake smile was on his lips, with the words, "I'm not that hungry. Maybe some other time. I have to go. See you guys later." As he drove away, the man glared at them and Isaac waved – too eagerly.

"Mr. Lahey?"

A bemused smirk crept up the right side of Lahey's face. He raised his mug in a mock-salute, registering the appellation. "Don't think standing on formality will earn you any points. You're still an insolent little bastard. But if you want to show me more respect, you can start by calling me 'sir.' 'Dad' works just as fine, but I won't accept any of your back-talking."

"Wha-what?" Dad? _Dad?!_ Stiles was confused. Maybe Mr. Lahey was the one who had suffered a head-injury. "What, uh, what about Isaac?"

Now Mr. Lahey was confused. "Isaac? Isaac who?" Stiles watched as the man's forehead wrinkled in understanding and his face darkened in a scowl. "You mean Sheriff Stilinski's kid? I don't want that boy over here, and I don't want you hanging around him. Goddamn pig, nothing but a glorified rent-a-cop with a tin badge. I don't need him sticking his nose into my business where it doesn't belong. Stay away from the sheriff and his boy, you hear me?"

 _Sheriff Stilinski's kid? Glorified rent-a-cop?_ Stiles had about a million questions, and a few choice words, for Lahey, but considering he had no idea what was happening, he decided to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought.

Mr. Lahey went to the sink, rinsed his mug, and put it in the dishwasher. A blue vein stood out along the peachy skin of his neck. He turned his molten eyes upon Stiles, and stepped closer to him. Though he was of average height, he seemed to tower over the boy. The vein throbbed but his voice was deliberate, steady: "Go upstairs and get dressed. I'm not going to tell you twice."

"Yes, sir...Dad." Until he figured out what was happening, Stiles would go along with this little charade. He'd pretend to be Lahey's son. It was easier to obey than ask questions. But he was determined to figure this out. The first thing he needed to do when he got to school was find Isaac.

He started for the stairs. "Stiles." He paused and met Lahey's pernicious gaze, startled by the malice he saw in the man's eyes. Lahey rubbed the knuckles of his left hand with his right. Unlike Stilinski, the widower no longer wore his wedding ring. "Remember what I said. You stay away from that sheriff. Or else."


	4. Chapter 4: Tuesday

**Chapter Four: Tumultuous Tuesday**

Stiles hadn't ridden the bus since he was in middle school. He waited on the curb, backpack slung over his left shoulder, bruises safely concealed under a thick cable-knit turtleneck sweater, though the day was warm and bright. He dug the toe of his worn sneaker into a crevice in the sidewalk, counting cracks in the pavement. _Step on a crack, break your mother's back._ The big yellow monstrosity pulled up shortly, brakes and doors swinging open with a teeth-grinding squeal. Stiles glanced once over his shoulder. Three houses down, he could feel Lahey's eyes on him, peering invisibly from behind the curtains. Languidly sipping his second cup of coffee from that stout white mug.

The driver nodded at him with poorly concealed disinterest and mild contempt as he mounted the steps. Sudden and inexplicable panic rose in the back of his throat like bile. His palms broke out in a cold sweat. The length of the bus seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a sea of indistinguishable faces floating over tattered vinyl seats, like hallways in his nightmares. Stiles considered turning around and bolting, but the doors groaned shut behind him. The driver, impatient to drop his load of delinquents off and return home to his DVR and episodes of "Breaking Bad" and "Mad Men," pulled heedlessly into early morning traffic. The bus lurched. Stiles stumbled forward.

He wished this was all a bad dream – like the ones where he showed up to school naked – and he would soon wake up to the aggravated beeping of his alarm clock and his father calling up to him with shouts of "Stiles! Breakfast!" He started down the aisle, holding onto the edges of seats as he passed, to keep himself from lurching forward and falling flat on his face. A few glassy, sleep-crusted eyes watched him. Most gazed out the windows or down at their cellphones – their mindless abbreviations and games of Candy Crush.

The majority of the kids were grade or middle-schoolers. The younger kids congregated near the front, the older youth in the back. Stiles passed the girls in pigtails and Disney Princess backpacks, the little boys with superhero sneakers and freckled cheeks. The giggly young women with pierced ears, whispering about how cute so-and-so was or rolling their eyes. The juvenile boys, in baggy pants and ball caps, making lewd comments, trying to win the attention of the girls chewing bubble gum like cows masticating cud.

The bus was rank with the smell of sweat and fruity body sprays. Too much Axe and a dizzying medley of girly scents, an overwhelming cacophony of olfactory stimulation that gave him a headache. Permeated by a faint, undeniable whiff of flatulence and puke – cleaned up long ago, except for the lingering ghost of its scent which would not be so easily exorcised. A paper-wad went flying through the air, followed up an elastic band connecting with the back of some poor kid's head. A boy belched loudly, earning the approving laughter of his buddies.

Stiles lurched forward again as the bus braked suddenly at a Stop sign. A blotchy faced kid wearing blue Adidas sneakers and his friends snickered. "Loser," the boy coughed conspicuously, triumphing in his hateful vocabulary and snotty sneer. He was adept in the art of redirecting attention from his own unattractiveness by belittling everyone else. His pals encouraged his abuse with their mocking jeers and cowardly silence.

One of the sneakers shot out in front of Stiles' foot, and the teen only just caught his balance before face-planting. He righted himself unsteadily and continued to search for a seat. This was the longest 25 seconds of his life. He glanced hopefully at the vacant spot beside a pretty blond eighth-grader, but she quickly thrust her bag into the empty space, turned up her nose, and shoved a set of pink rose earbuds into her ears.

Stiles felt his anxiety dislodge from his throat and plunge into his stomach, where it nestled in a gut-wrenching knot. Perspiration broke out sticky and hot under his armpits. It was a kind of moist, clinging, animal, prepubescent panic he hadn't felt since freshman year. The kind that awakens with the onset of middle school and hormones and a budding awareness of the opposite sex, whispering new-formed fears of rejection and fitting in, of zits before prom and dates at Dairy Queen on a Thursday night. Irrational worries – more pressing than homework or parents or inconsequential matters like Global Warming or pandemic poverty – of tripping down the stairs in front of a crowd or starting your period the day you decided to wear a white skirt, or having your pretty crush laugh in your face – how hilariously absurd, the thought that a girl like _her_ would ever date a boy like _you._ Dog-eat-dog hierarchies in the cut-throat jungle of teenage politics. Cliques and groups and boxes you try to fit yourself into, as if the person you are in high school is the person you'll be for the rest of your life.

If he wasn't nervous of being trampled, he'd sit in the middle of the aisle and wait for this hellish bus ride to end. Right about now, he really wished his buddy Scott was with him.

Stiles searched frantically for a friendly face. Finding none, he sought simply a familiar face. Near the back of the bus he spotted Boyd. Good, old, surly, reliable Boyd. Boyd who always ate alone at the same lunch table day after day, and who was rumoured to be able to procure whatever high school contraband your teenage heart desired – bongs, Playboy magazines, unfiltered cigarettes, cherry bombs, pirated pre-releases of new games, next week's math test answers, a little juice to give you an extra edge at Saturday's lacrosse game. Whatever you wished – for a price, of course.

Stiles launched himself into the vacant seat beside the hulking Boyd, thankful for a familiar (albeit grumpy) face. He grinned goofily up at his classmate. "Hiya, Boyd," Stiles chirped. "How are ya?" He couldn't actually remember if Boyd was the teen's last name or first, of even if it was just a nickname he went by, perhaps substituting a longer or more complicated or unusual name for the simple four letter appellation (just as Stiles did with his real name). He had only ever known the boy as Boyd – that one name setting him apart like Madonna or Charo or Cher – or, perhaps more appropriately, when taking in the teen's size and perma-scowl – Eminem, Jay-Z, 50 Cent, or Dr. Dre.

Boyd replied with a cold, steely glare – a look as chilly as frost-bite. "You can sit here, but don't talk to me."

"Okay." Stiles twiddled his thumbs. He turned to watch out the window, but Boyd was closest to it, and he had the distinct impression that glancing too long in Boyd's direction was like baiting a wild bear. He averted his eyes, and from the safety of his seat, restlessly considered his fellow passengers. He was a safari explorer studying the natural wildlife of a new, foreign, and hostile area, examining new species up close and personal – up until the point he is attacked by deranged, manic monkeys or carelessly shoves his head into the lion's mouth for a closer look.

There was a cylindrical tube sticking out of the unzippered top of Boyd's backpack. Stiles' eyes fell curiously upon it. "Cool!" he exclaimed. This must be a selection of Boyd's new merchandise. "Is that-?"

Boyd swatted Stiles' impulsive, wandering hand away. Though he hadn't hit him hard, Stiles' fingers stung from the contact, and he noticed for the first time the odd angle of his thumb. "No," Boyd barked, zipping his bag, and shifting it and his large body as far away from Stiles as he could. Which wasn't very far. Stiles sulked gloomily. This day was not off to a good start. He wondered how much worse it could possibly get.

 **TEENWOLF**

Isaac had never possessed his very own mode of transportation. Sure, he had had a bicycle as a kid, but he had long since outgrown it, and as a teenager he found himself dependent on the bus, his own two feet, and his father to take him were he needed to go. None of these methods allowing him any real range of movement. The bus, while reliable, only took him to and from school (which, granted, constituted about half of his life). Beacon Hills was a relatively small town; public transit was non-existent. His father was exceedingly strict about where Isaac could and could not go and when.

Even Isaac's own feet failed him. They did not offer the freedom poets and philosophers so eloquently expressed. They were often hindered by his father; in the Lahey household, Mr. Lahey exercised as much power and authority as God Himself, taking and giving (mostly taking) from Isaac all the rights and privileges Nature had gifted him. His poor, vulnerable feet were no match against locked doors and the basement, against his father's wrath and the beatings, which left him too sore and weak to lift himself off the floor, too beaten down and broken to find the energy or desire to just walk out the front door and keep walking. To walk and walk and walk, until everything he had ever known disappeared behind him, and he would never look back.

Isaac had often seen Stiles' blue 1980 Jeep CJ5 parked at school or the sheriff's station or a burger joint downtown. He had thought, if he ever thought about Stiles' Jeep at all, that it was an old dinosaur of a vehicle, a blue rumbling beacon of attention – _hey look at me! –_ that set Stiles apart as slightly odd. Now, as he slid behind the wheel, keys in hand, he thought it was the most beautiful Jeep in existence. The murmur of the engine was music to his ears. The gas pedal beneath his foot seemed to open up the entire world before him. The steering wheel was an embodiment of independence.

He was disappointed the school was only a ten minute drive from the Stilinski residence. The Jeep was a freedom he had never known, and he felt he finally understand Stiles' unwavering loyalty to the ancient piece of junk on four wheels. If he thought he could get away with it, Isaac would drive right out of town, out of California. Maybe he'd drive up to through Canada to Alaska and see the Northern lights. Or drive east until he couldn't drive any further and dip his toes in the cold Atlantic Ocean. The possibilities were endless.

Unfortunately, possibilities lost to practicalities, and didn't take him any further than Beacon Hills High School. The supposed center of higher learner with which Isaac had always had a mixed relationship.

The bus was unloading when Isaac pulled into the lot and parked in one of the spaces reserved for juniors. Isaac got out slowly, placing one foot on the solid ground, and then the other; he felt like one of those badass cops in action films, the sun glinting off their sunglasses and vehicles, ready to take down some mofo. Very cool, very heroic, very suave. Isaac slammed the door and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He was feeling high, amazed at how great he felt, how wonderfully this wish was taking shape.

"Don't slam the doors of my Jeep!" The shout came several metres from his left. Stiles was running toward him. He was dressed differently than usual, and Isaac felt a weird wave of deja-vu. It was like looking into a bizarre fun house mirror. "Oh my God, my Jeep! You're driving my Jeep!" Stiles threw himself at the vehicle, inspecting the hood and doors with a critical eye.

"Keep your voice down." Several students had stopped to gawk. A few snickered. If there was one thing Isaac absolutely hated, it was drawing attention to himself.

"I can't believe you're driving my Jeep! And I had to take the bus!" Stiles jabbed a finger in Isaac's face. "You better not have been too hard on the clutch!"

"Stiles, I wasn't. Chill out." Isaac paused. "How do you know this is your Jeep?"

"What do you mean 'how do I know it's my Jeep?' Of course, it's my Jeep! You don't think I would recognize my own baby? The question is: why are _you_ driving my Jeep? What the hell is going on?" Clearly Stiles was aware of the change; when he had asked the sheriff to give him a ride this morning, Stilinksi had stared at him like he had three heads and, very slowly, had suggested he should just take his Jeep instead. _His_ Jeep. _Isaac's._

Isaac wasn't sure how to answer Siles' last question, how to even begin to explain. He was still trying to figure it all out himself. "Where did you wake up this morning?"

Stiles' eyes narrowed suspiciously. He examined Isaac, noting the subtle changes in the boy's clothing and appearance. Isaac seemed to stand taller, prouder. He was definitely dressed better, and he looked rosier, healthier. He had a weird glow going on. In fact, he was almost... _hot._

Stiles was on the defensive. Admitting he had woken up in Isaac's house would make this conversation weird – well, weirder – and if he said that sentence aloud, it would make the situation real. Unless he was dreaming, and dream Isaac was just being a dum-dum. "Where did _you_ wake up this morning?"

"Will you stop being difficult for once and answer the question?"

"You first."

Isaac sighed. Might as well go right for the truth, like ripping off a band-aid: "I woke up in your house, okay? In your house, in your room. In your bed, actually. Only apparently, it's my bed, because all my stuff was in the room. Your dad was totally unsurprised to see me in your house. He made me breakfast and sent me to school. He...he thinks I'm his son, and that you're... well, that you're not." Stiles flashbacked to Mr. Lahey's words at breakfast. He had called Isaac Sheriff Stilinski's son. He had claimed ownership over Stiles. He had warned him to stay away. "What is it?" Isaac asked, reading Stiles' face.

"I...I woke up in your house. Your dad is under the same impression: that you're my dad's son and that...I'm his son." Isaac examined Stiles more closely – the baggy jeans, the scuffed sneakers, the oversized dark turtleneck. There were bruises along his friend's jaw, cheekbone, and forehead. Oh God, did that mean...? "Okay, this is really starting to freak me out now. What kind of twisted universe separates me from my Jeep?!"

Isaac rolled his eyes; he was snappier with his replies today. A new-found boldness and, dare he say, sarcasm swelled within him. "Would you give it a rest already? It's just a Jeep."

"It is not just a Jeep! The fact that you just said that means you are not worthy to be driving it!"

What was it with Stiles and his vehicle? He hadn't even thought to ask about his father. _HE doesn't deserve a father like Sheriff Stilinski,_ Isaac thought ungraciously, and then felt instantly guilty for thinking such a thought. If children were birthed in families they deserved, he didn't want to think that he deserved having Mitch Lahey as a father.

Isaac started walking towards the school, his strides unusually long and steady. Stiles hurried to keep up with him. "How the hell is this happening?"

"I'm not sure. I think it might have something to do with the mine."

"The mine?" Stiles didn't understand; Isaac hadn't even gone inside the mine, had he? Stiles had planned this big adventure, and then his friends were too cowardly to join him. This all came back to his head injury. No wonder he was in so much pain. "I have a concussion, don't I? This is all a brain-injury induced hallucination."

Isaac shook his head. "No, I think this is real." He glanced around at the students milling around the hallways, chatting and laughing, pushing past them to get to lockers and homerooms. He thought about his morning shower and the pancakes Stilinski had made him. The steering wheel under his fingers, the driver's seat cradling his butt, a tonne of metal under his command. "It _feels_ real."

Stiles took inventory of his body again, noting each part he could feel – some for the first time. He hadn't realized certain places on one's body _could_ ache. He tested the alignment of his left thumb, the one he had noticed on the bus. It was crooked and the movement was disjointed, like an elderly person's with severe arthritis. "Yeah."

"I found a penny in the mine, and I made a wish."

"You made a wish on a penny?"

"It had Abe Lincoln's face printed backwards." Isaac offered by way of rationalization.

"You _wished_ on a weird penny," Stiles scoffed, "and suddenly we swap lives...like what, Freaky Friday? I'm Lindsay Lohan and your Jamie Lee Curtis? That makes _zero_ sense."

"I didn't say it made sense," Isaac snapped. "I just think that's what happened." They navigated the crowded hallways, Isaac trying to make himself invisible and small. A few guys from the lacrosse team said hello and clapped him on the back. A couple cheerleaders waved. Usually no one noticed Isaac. At all. It was weird, slightly frightening, and a little exhilarating. Maybe being the only son of the town sheriff had given him some kind of status. "Besides in 'Freaky Friday,' they swap _bodies._ Their brains are like in each other's bodies, but everyone still sees the mother as the mother. I'm in my own body, and everyone is calling me by my own name. I think we've swapped _lives._ "

"I've wished on pennies hundreds of time as a kid. None of those wishes ever came true."

Isaac shrugged. He stopped in front of his locker, but when he tried his combination, it wouldn't open. He would feel Stiles' critical gaze upon him, watching as his fingers spun and spun the dial, but nothing happened. It made him uneasy and irritable. He couldn't get it open with Stiles looking at him like that. For a long moment, Stiles was quiet, watching the dial turn around and around.

"What did you wish for?" he finally wondered. It was asked soberly, without the acerbic sarcasm of his other questions, and – Isaac felt – with an undertone of accusation, of suspicion. Stiles was taking this remarkably well, but there was still the fact that Isaac was the cause of all this. Somehow Isaac had taken what rightfully belonged to him.

"Not this," Isaac said simply. He wasn't sure now was the time for honesty.

"So how do we fix it?"

Isaac wasn't sure he wanted to fix it. He had woken up in a warm bed, had been greeted by a caring father, had showered and dressed without pain, and had driven himself to school for the first time ever. He didn't want this to end yet. If this was a dream, he wanted to stay asleep forever. If it wasn't, what were a few days? Was it so wrong to want to keep this change? Stiles didn't appreciate his blessings; he just wanted his stupid Jeep back.

"Why are you trying to open Stiles' locker?" Both boys jumped in surprise. Scott was watching him quizzically, his eyebrow arched.

"Stiles' locker?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Oh, right." Of course it was Stiles' locker. The lockers were assigned alphabetically: L before S. His locker would be further down. "I just, uh..."

"He was trying to see if he could guess my combination," Stiles supplied; Isaac latched appreciatively onto the idea. Stiles had always been a quick-thinker, able to improvise and talk his way out of most situations.

Isaac stepped back and relinquished the lock to Stiles. He spun in his usual combination, and the lock opened easily. He was both unsurprised and apprehensive; this was another proof that what Isaac claimed was true. They had mystically, and for whatever reason, swapped lives. What had once belonged to Stiles now belonged to Isaac, and what had once been Isaac's...Stiles opened the locker door. The inside was jammed-pack with random objects – loose papers and school texts, an empty water bottle, a few t-shirts. It looked exactly like his own locker, expect filled past capacity, and with items he wasn't sure why he would bring to school – a couple books and dvds, stamped with the public library's name and crest, a toothbrush and a bottle of Advil, a flashlight and a pillow.

They had swapped lives, but clearly they hadn't swapped habits or personalities.

Scott was talking about a lacrosse practice neither Isaac nor Stiles remembered attending. Stiles extracted his Chemistry 101 textbook from the mess, being careful not to send anything flying to the floor, and then inconspicuously led Isaac to what had once been his own locker. He walked beside Isaac, and stopped at the appropriate locker. He couldn't let it seem like he had to show Isaac where it was.

Isaac tried his combination in the lock. It popped open in his hands. Unlike Stiles' locker, Isaac's was neat and orderly, holding the typical school items and little else. There were photos tacked inside the door with transparent tape. A shot of the lacrosse team and Isaac in his jersey, sans helmet. Candids of he and Scott camping, fishing, at the beach, at school. There was a photo of him leaning back against the Jeep, sunglasses on, a cool smirk lifting his lips, and a profile of a younger Sheriff Stilinski in full uniform.

There were also several images of Allison – alone and with Isaac. Up close shots and full-length ones. Photos of her smiling, laughing face, of her bikini clad body. Selfies with Isaac, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his cheek. Isaac and Stiles peeked at Scott – one nervously, the other curiously – trying to gauge his reaction. Clearly Isaac Stilinski had a thing for Allison Argent, Scott's high-school sweetheart. Only Scott didn't seem to notice anything odd or uncomfortable. He didn't frown at the photos or look away. He just kept yammering on about lacrosse. There didn't appear to be any tension between them.

Isaac grabbed his chem book and slammed the locker. Suddenly, a girl materialized at his side, her smile even bigger and more radiant than in the photos. She slipped her slender arms around Isaac's waist and kissed him deeply. "Good morning," she chirped happily, somewhat breathless, when she pulled away. "How's my favorite boyfriend this morning?"

"He's your only boyfriend," Lydia Martin quipped, heels clicking as she came up behind them. She hitched her purse higher up her shoulder. She stood next to Stiles, but didn't acknowledge him.

Boyfriend? Stiles and Isaac looked at each other in shock.

"What?" Allison caught the glance between them. Her brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I just...you mean me, right?"

Lydia laughed, but Allison's face darkened in concern. "Of course I mean you. I don't make a habit of calling just any boy my boyfriend. Are you okay?"

"No, of course you don't do that! I'm okay. I just...you're so beautiful..." Isaac blushed. Allison softened at the color rising in his cheeks, and reached for him again.

"Walk me to class?"

"S-sure." Allison grabbed his hand and began leading him down the hall. Isaac looked back at Stiles over his shoulder, and Stiles shrugged. Apparently there were a few major differences in this alternate reality. Stiles looked hopefully at Lydia, her red-blond curls bouncing over her shoulders. She watched the couple disappear down the hall, and clucked her tongue. "I bet Allison would love him even if he wasn't captain of the lacrosse team." Lydia shook her head in disbelief at such a ridiculous notion.

"Captain of the...?" Whatever the hell kind of wish Isaac had made, it was certainly working out well in his favor.

* * *

 ** _I apologize for the long gap between updates. I started a new full-time job, which has taken over my life, and sufficiently devoured the time I usually spend writing. I've also been struggling for inspiration on this fic, so I'm sorry if this chapter doesn't reach my usual standards._**

 **What days would you guys like to see updates? Go to my profile and answer the poll to let me know. I'll try to update on the most voted days (at least once a month, hopefully more than that).**

 ** _*_ Fun fact for this fic _: I always name Sheriff Stilinski "John" (because I like the sound of it), but hadn't thought of a name for Mr. Lahey (who is never named in the series). I decided to give Lahey the name "Mitch," because the actor who portrays Lahey - John Wesley Shipp - also played Dawson's father, Mitch Leery, in another one of my fav shows: "Dawson's Creek." (Which I totally didn't realize at first, because his characters are so different. What a great actor!) He's also happens to play Henry Allen, Barry's father, in "The Flash."_**

 ** _Please remember to leave a review! And answer the poll!_**


	5. Chapter 5: Chemistry

**Chapter Five: Chemistry**

Stiles hated Chemistry; it was his most despised class, lower in esteem than either Phys Ed or Economics, both of which were taught by the indomitable Coach Finstock, who could never seem to remember his name and never let him out of playing dodgeball. It wasn't that he hated the subject matter – because he didn't – or that he found the class boring or uninteresting – though he sometimes did. It wasn't that he couldn't understand chemical reactions, compounds and solutions, atomic structure or the periodic table, because he actually had an aptitude for science and logic and being able to figure a problem out based on the information he was given. It wasn't even because Adam Goldberg – who always smelled of onions – sat on his left, or that Jackson Whittemore – who cheated on tests by stealing Stiles' answers and making threatening gestures when he didn't comply – sat behind him.

None of those things, not even the summation of them together, was the reason Stiles hated Chemistry. The reason was, in fact, rather simple: he loathed his teacher.

Adrian Harris was one of those breed of men that you either hated or revered. Other students, females in particular, adored him. He was intelligent, fiery, and confident ("arrogant," Stiles thought, was a more fitting characterization); he didn't put up with bullshit or give an apparent damn about what people thought of him; he was cool and suave, an impeccable dresser and he was (or so girls and even Danny had been known to claim) " _fine,_ " which Stiles knew meant the man was easy on the eyes.

Harris was, however, not a particularly good teacher. He lectured knowledgeably, but without passion, conviction, or concern. As much as he knew his subject backwards-and-forwards, he clearly didn't love it enough to care if he effectively instilled his lessons in the minds of his blossoming young students. He obviously didn't want to be there, and made no pretense of faking otherwise. He didn't give a damn about his students, their education, or their lives, or their well-being. Stiles wondered why the man had chosen to become a teacher in the first place. Was the School Board so desperate for teachers they would hire anyone, even men and women who hated teenagers? Or were they really that oblivious?

Mr. Harris could be snide and sarcastic – traits Stiles generally approved of – but he used his snarky wit to belittle and humiliate his students. He was rude, patronizing, and subtly cruel. He was known to have made more than a few students cry, even shaming them in front of their peers if they had the ill-fortune to shed tears during class. Yet principals and parents were deluded into thinking he was a great teacher – the charming man from the Parent-Teacher conferences? It couldn't be _his_ fault their child was struggling in Chemistry – and his ruthlessness and biting tongue went unchecked because his students, even those who liked him, were secretly afraid of him, and never wanted him to aim his virulence at them.

Unfortunately, Harris – for reasons unknown – nursed a personal grudge against Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles, no matter how hard he worked, how diligently he labored to control his ADHD and focus, or how many times he bit back a sarcastic reply of his own, could never seem to get on Harris' good side or improve his standing with the man a single iota. _But maybe he doesn't mind this version of me,_ Stiles consoled himself. This alternate reality boasted several differences from his real life. Maybe one of those differences would include Harris' opinion of him. Maybe whatever he had done in his own reality to piss off Harris hadn't occurred here.

Stiles gazed out the window. From this vantage point, he had a perfect view of his Jeep parked out front. Okay, so he and Isaac had swapped lives. He could accept that as true. All empirical evidence pointed to its veracity. This "swapping" included trading their homes, their fathers, their lockers, and all the little things that make up a daily life. It seemed to Stiles that so far Isaac had received the better end of this deal. What part of this trade-off was beneficial to Stiles?

"Lahey?"

Yet other aspects had carried over and stayed the same: their locker combinations, their jersey numbers, their class schedules, their interests and preferences, their habits, their mutual friendship with Scott. Stiles was pretty sure he still had his ADHD, and Isaac didn't. Their names hadn't changed. Everyone still called him "Stiles," though he had donned the label in his real life only because no one could pronounce his birth name. It was a play on his surname he had come up with as a child, a toddler whose own full name was too much of a mouthful for him to say, and it had stuck.

He wondered what his name was in this universe.

"Mr. Lahey."

Maybe his first name _was_ the same. He would have to remember to find and check a piece of identification later. Admittedly it would be strange though, since the name had meaning only so long as he was the son of Claudia Stilinski, which he assumed he wasn't. It gave him a sudden ache to think of his mother, who may no longer be his mother. What would his father have thought of that?

There were other differences that kept Stiles from being able to correctly guess what would stay the same in this universe and what would be changed. For one, Isaac was dating Allison Argent and was captain of the lacrosse team. As a Stilinski, Stiles had had neither a girlfriend or jock status, despite being on the team. He had only recently been promoted to first line, after striving since freshman year to finally get off the bench and play. He had never been a favorite among girls or his fellow students. And despite being the only child of the town sheriff, he had never received any special recognition or favors.

"Mr. Lahey!"

In this reality, born into each other's families, Isaac had changed the course of Stiles' life. What had Isaac done differently? Or not done? What choices had he made? How did he behave? How did he carry himself? How did he relate to the people in his life, to Sheriff Stilinski? How had he shaped Stiles' life in a way that more closely resembled the life Stiles had always wanted, the person he had always wanted to be? Had Stiles been living his own life incorrectly?

"Stiles Lahey."

" _Stiles_." Scott, sitting at the lab bench across the aisle, urgently whispered his friend's name and kicked his foot. Stiles broke from his reverie, his train of thought running off the rails. His eyes locked with the exasperated, impatient gaze of Mr. Harris. The man's eyes were narrowed to slits.

"Uh, present?" Right, he was Lahey now. He had already forgotten. But how, after answering to Stilinski, his rightful name, for seventeen years could he be expected to answer to Lahey, literally overnight?

Harris considered him coldly. "I know it must be difficult," the teacher said slowly, as if Stiles were stupid, "for your few surviving brain cells to properly function in the morning, after you were no doubt up all night watching porn, but if you are going to bother showing up for class, the least you could do is remember your own name long enough to do roll call." Harris turned abruptly on his heel and strolled back up the aisle, followed by a chorus of snickers and the tapping of his designer leather shoes. "Lewis."

"Here."

"Lozoya."

"Present."

Stiles' face burned beet red. He sunk lower into his chair; he wished he could sink right down through the floor. This day was not off to a good start. He'd been in Isaac's shoes for only a few hours, and already he had publicly humiliated himself.

Isaac was sitting at the bench in front of him. Judging by the rapid reply he gave when Harris called "Stilinski," he must have been waiting for it. Repeating his new surname to himself so he wouldn't forget to answer to it, making a fool of himself the way Stiles had. Isaac, now that Stiles considered it, was always prompt in his replies when teachers spoke to him – though they rarely did. He would never, as Stiles had done, be caught unawares. And yet, mostly, he was quiet in class, never answering or asking questions, never so much as uttering boo to his neighbor. He made himself almost invisible, so that Stiles sometimes forgot when he was in class, and rarely noticed when he wasn't there at all.

Harris had finished roll-call and begun his lecture on kinetic molecular theory. Stiles tuned him out, and instead studied the back of Isaac's head. Was it his imagination, or did Isaac's hair actually look better? Less limp? Dare he say, _lush_? His posture was better too – straighter, his shoulders less slumped, his spine more perpendicular. Stiles had sat behind him in enough classes to be able to recognize the difference. Isaac still _looked_ like Isaac, but there were subtle changes Stiles couldn't quite name or define. Had swapping lives done that for Isaac? Was Stiles changed in the same way?

Stiles took stock of himself again. Okay, Isaac was driving his Jeep, living in his house, dating a hot girl, and captaining the lacrosse team. He was basically everything Stiles had ever wanted to be – minus the wit and sarcasm. Stiles was…well, he was living in Lahey's house and…he didn't really know. He didn't have enough information to create a bigger picture; all he had were incomplete and partial fragments from which he was supposed to understand a whole life. He couldn't do it.

He tried to recall what he knew about Isaac – but he came up blank. Surely he must know something about Isaac's life. He knew where Isaac lived, knew his mother was gone (where? Divorced? Incarcerated? Dead?), knew his father owned and operated the Beacon Hills cemetery, but that was about the extent of it. He had heard Isaac had an older brother, but he hadn't heard about him in a long time and couldn't recall a name. Was he still living in Beacon Hills or attending college? Maybe he was even older – an adult living on his own, with a career and two point five kids and a wife – or a husband.

Moreover, when Stiles really thought about it, he didn't know much about Isaac as a person – birthday, grade point average, life goals, favorite color. They had been friends since freshman year (largely thanks to Scott's influence), and yet all he could remember was that Isaac hated being late, his lacrosse number was 14, they were in all the same classes except two (what courses were Isaac taking instead?), and he was too shy to shower in the locker room after practice. That was all he knew.

But that couldn't be right, could it? They were friends. How could Stiles know so little about Isaac?

"Isaac. _Psssst. Isaac._ "

Isaac heard, but ignored, Stiles' whispering. So far today his attempts to fly under the radar per usual had been complicated, and he would rather avoid the irate attention of Harris. Usually the teacher was content to ignore him, like most people did, but sometimes Harris needed a scapegoat upon which to vent his angry and frustration at his own personal failures, especially on bad days. In any universe, that scapegoat was typically Stiles, whose inability to focus in class, natural inclination to challenge authority figures, and unfortunate overabundance of sarcasm made him Harris' prime target. But occasionallywhen Stiles was absent or otherwise preoccupied, the sad lot fell to Isaac, and in Harris' cutting remarks and hard gaze Isaac heard and saw his father. The monster that lurked beneath the unassuming façade of Mitch Lahey lurked inside Adrian Harris as well.

"Isaac. Hey, Isaac. _Hey_."

He would _not_ turn around. He would _not_ answer back. No matter how much Stiles pestered him. Harris was already in a bad mood, and he had already embarrassed one student today. That was Stiles' problem, Isaac thought. He never learned. He just kept coming and coming, picking and pestering. He didn't know how to be indiscreet and indistinguishable like Isaac did. He didn't know when to just sit down and shut up. He was always bringing trouble upon himself.

"Isaac. _Hey_. I have a question for you. Isaac."

Isaac glanced at the clock. Another thirty minutes. He just needed to last another thirty minutes.

" _Isaac_!" OMG, was he deaf? Stiles ripped a sheet of paper from his binder, scrunched it up in his hand, and chucked. The wad thumped off the back of Isaac's head and landed dully on the floor. There was a split-second of non-movement, when time seemed to stop. Isaac reached up his hand and touched his hair in surprise. He briefly turned to look back at Stiles, and the astonishment on his face was hilarious. Stiles' expression was downright sheepish. He splayed his fingers out innocently and opened his mouth to speak.

"Stiles Lahey!" Both boys gaped at Harris. For a fraction of a second, Stiles inanely hoped Harris hadn't noticed the paper ball. The teacher's palms were planted flat on his desk, and he rested his weight against them. There was chalk dust on his right cuff, near a watch too expensive for his teaching salary. As he glared at Stiles, his cheeks flushed an unattractive shade of scarlet that clashed with his brown suit. "Detention! 3 o'clock!"

"But Mr. Harris-"

"Don't tell me you're actually going to try to offer me some kind of explanation." That was exactly what Stiles was had intended, though he didn't have a reasonable explanation. He had a bad habit of impulsively following his whims and urges without any forethought. Hence the cave the night before. "Are you _trying_ to get suspended?"

Stiles wasn't sure how to respond. His spit dried in his tongue and felt heavy and useless in his mouth. He wanted to defend himself, to aim a jab so perfectly articulated at Harris that it would cut the man back down to size, knock him down a peg. Normally he might have named dropped – "Remember the sheriff, _my father?_ " – but he didn't have that luxury this time.

"Pick that wad of paper off the floor. Right now. Hurry up. I don't have all day. That's it. Put it in the recycling bin. Are you an idiot? Don't _throw_ it in. Place it in, like a civilized person." Stiles obeyed, bending down to pick up the offending paper and putting it in the proper bin. He and Harris had had some stand-offs in the past, but nothing of this magnitude. Nothing in which Harris made a spectacle out of him in front of everyone. He slumped back to his chair and tried to hide himself within the excessive fabric of his turtleneck. He felt heat in his entire body and hoped he wasn't as red as he felt.

This time Harris' attack was not met with the jeering approval of his students: the snide giggles and jeering laughter. A few students looked away uncomfortably, busying themselves by fiddling with the pages of their textbooks or rearranging their pencils on their desk, anxious and wishing to God they were anywhere but there. Others stared, unable to look away, like witnesses of a gory car accident. Stiles had just been slammed by an on-coming semi with a vengeance and was being burned alive, but they couldn't tear their eyes away. They could not help, could not stop their own curiosity. Only Jackson seemed to be enjoying himself. He smirked and nodded his approval. Scott shook his head at Stiles sadly, his eyes wide and sympathetic.

"It amazes me that so much stupidity could exist in a single person. You are exactly the kind of teenager that makes me grieve for the future of America, and exactly why there need to be laws for anyone with an IQ lower than a sponge to be forbidden to reproduce. If you happen to find a girl dumber than you are, who has the unfortunate luck of finding you attractive, make sure she's on the pill." As Harris continued to rip Stiles apart, squashing him like a bug and grinding him into dust beneath his heel, Isaac felt uncharacteristic indignation swelling within him, surging and bubbling like boiling water in a pot. It was a terrifying and oddly strengthening feeling, this righteous rage inside of him. Any moment he would boil over, scalding and scathing. He would do something he was sure to regret (like maybe slamming his fist into Harris' face), and all his plans to maintain a low profile would have failed. He clenched his teeth together and tried to calm himself down. _Be cool, Isaac. Be cool._

"Mr. Harris, I was just…"

"If I hear your voice again, Mr. Lahey, I may be tempted to give you detention for the rest of your high school career."

"Can you do that?"

"There it is again. Your voice. Triggering the only impulse I've ever had to strike a student repeatedly and violently."

Isaac had heard enough. Mr. Harris was nothing but a bully. He shouldn't be able to treat his students like this; he especially shouldn't be allowed to utter threats of violence against them. No one had the right to slap Stiles, whether he was being annoying or not. "Mr. Harris," he said, without moving from his seat or looking up. His voice was the frightening deadly calm associated with psychotics and people confident in their own virtue. "I don't think the principal would be happy to hear that you cut a lecture short to embarrass Stiles in front of his peers. Or that you threatened physical violence against a student."

"You can join Mr. Lahey in detention at 3 o'clock, Mr. Stilinski," Harris snapped, though it was clear Isaac's words had startled him. He was still angry, but with no outlet, with his own wrongness glaring him in the face, he was deflated and silenced. "I hope your little self-righteous display was worth it."

Surprisingly, it was. Stiles and Isaac stared at each other wide-eyed, both of them surprised that Isaac, meek and unobtrusive Isaac, had actually just confronted a teacher.

Harris marched back to the front of the classroom, but it was evident he had lost the thread of his lecture and would be unable to pick it up again. He waved his hand in dismissal and ushered them out of class fifteen minutes early. "I'll see you two at 3 o'clock sharp," Harris warned, as Isaac and Stiles went out the door together.

"That was awesome!" Stiles exclaimed, as soon as they were in the hallway. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

"Neither did I," Isaac confessed. He bit his lower lip contemplatively. He had never done anything like that before, never in a million years thought he would have the courage to. It felt good. Really good. He'd never stood up to anyone before, and it felt amazing to have stood up on behalf of someone else. A couple of guys slapped him on the back as they passed and reiterated Stiles' statement; a couple of girls gushed over him and practically fell at his feet. "I don't know where it came from."

"Maybe it's part of who you are in this reality," Stiles suggested. "Maybe you're fearless."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, think about it. Maybe you're feeling some of the side effects of your reality in this universe. You've clearly changed physically. Maybe you're feeling the differences mentally too. Maybe Isaac Stilinski is the gallant young hero every American jock hopes to be." Isaac deliberated this and decided Stiles might be right. He would _never_ have done something like that normally. But it was more than that, more than any consequence of the wish. Harris had aimed similar remarks at Stiles before, and Isaac had kept quiet. It was different this time: hearing the insults in connection to the name Lahey, in connection with his father who _would_ slap you just because he hated the sound of your voice.

Scott caught up with the boys on their way to American History. "That was great, Isaac," he proclaimed with real admiration. "You were the only one who had the courage to stand up to Harris. He really went too far this time." He cast his sympathetic eyes upon Stiles. "I'm sorry that happened to you, man."

Stiles waved it off with a gesture of his hand. "No big deal." He was used to Harris giving him a hard time. "I'll sure everyone will have forgotten about it by lunch. Not looking forward to detention with him though."

Scott nodded, and smiled at him encouragingly. "I'm sure your right."

Whether everyone would forget or not, Stiles didn't care. He was going to pretend it had never happened. And yet, he couldn't ignore the sharp pang that had sliced through his gut when Harris was screaming at him. For a moment, he had been genuinely afraid. His mind completely emptied, and he hadn't found the usual repertoire of words to defend himself. He had felt alone and terrified in a way he never had before.

He glanced at Isaac as Scott continued to chat amicably about the incident, and he couldn't help the stab of jealousy and regret that filled him. Isaac Stilinski was a lot more courageous and well-liked than Stiles Stilinski. His rebellions made him the champion of the junior class; he was a hero. If Stiles had ever tried to stand up to Harris in the same way, he'd have gotten a week's worth of detention, and everyone would have claimed he deserved it because of his sharp tongue.

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	6. Chapter 6: Detention

**Chapter Six: Detention**

The remainder of the day progressed uneventfully. Stiles and Isaac attended class as usual; they ate lunch in the cafeteria, at a table crowded with Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson; and they made periodic stops at their lockers between classes. They both attempted to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, each privately entertaining his own thoughts, questions and suspicions.

"You guys sure are quiet today," Scott noted after last period, slamming his locker shut. He glanced back and forth between his two friends. They had been acting weird all day, and he couldn't figure out why. Had something happened they weren't telling him about? "And I've never seen you guys together so much." Subconsciously Stiles and Isaac had remained near each other, neither wanting to lose sight of the only other person who knew what was happening. Usually Scott was the mediator between the two of them, the string that tied them together, and while he wasn't jealous to see his two best friends getting along, he couldn't help feeling hurt that the two of them obviously shared a secret and were keeping it from him.

Scott hadn't wanted to say anything, but he couldn't stop himself from asking: "You guys would tell me if anything was wrong, right?"

Isaac's eyes widened in shock, and Stiles laughed nervously – too loud and sharp. He ran a hand through his hair, and involuntarily winced at the pain that shot through his arm at the movement. "Yes, of course we would," Isaac said, at the exact same time Stiles replied, "Wrong? Why would there be anything wrong?" Scott arched an eyebrow.

"You guys have been acting strange all day."

"Strange? What do you mean strange?"

Scott inspected them closely, his eyes checking for telltale signs – an extra limb or a tail, or any other abnormalities. Isaac turned away from his friend's gaze, but Stiles looked him in the eyes. Scott was surprised to realize he'd never noticed Stiles' eye color before – how deep and intense the hazel was. Odd.

Scott shrugged, unable to pinpoint the source of the strangeness he felt. It was easier to give up on the matter – at least for now. "I don't know. Something is just different." Stiles clapped Scott on the shoulder and grinned. "Okay, bud. Whatever you say."

Isaac was growing anxious. It was bad enough they had detention; he didn't want to be late and bring down more of Harris' wrath. And he wanted to be as far away from this conversation as possible. He tugged childishly on Stiles' sleeve. "Come on. We don't want to be late." He nodded a goodbye to Scott, with a muttered "See you later," and started walking down the hallway.

Stiles rolled his eyes and mock saluted in Isaac's direction. "Yes, sir!" He shot a quick smirk at Scott, then hurried after Isaac, whose long legs carried him swiftly. "Hey, wait up! Slow down ya freakin' giant!"

Scott smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Stiles so animated. He was always sarcastic, sure, but usually his humor was more cynical and subdued….darker. It was nice to see him skipping off after Isaac. He hoped to see this change in his friend last. He didn't see it often, but Stiles had the goofy, sincere kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even on really crappy days. But, without knowing exactly why, Scott had a sinking feeling in this stomach that Stiles' attitude wouldn't last. It had seemingly come out of nowhere, and there was something – an invisible shadow – that always seemed to follow Stiles.

Scott shook his head. Ridiculous. What was he doing? Yammering on about that kind of preternatural mumbo jumbo Stiles was simply having a good day, despite the showdown in Chemistry, and Isaac, despite demonstrating his typical empathy, was merely having one of his moody days. He was reading too much into the situation. Still, Scott knew his friends better than anyone, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong…

 ** _TEENWOLF_**

Mr. Harris glowered at the boys as they came into his classroom. He glanced pointedly in the direction of the clock on the wall, the minute hand half a centimeter past the big bold **12.** "Sit in your seats," he instructed, and began rambling off the rules for detention. "Absolutely _no_ talking. I heard quite enough of your voices this morning. No cell phones. No passing notes. No chewing gum. You will work on this evening's homework assignment, and if you complete that will get started on the reading for the next unit. Use this time wisely." The teacher pulled a stack of stapled papers closer towards him and extracted a foreboding red pen. "I'm going to finish some marking. Pray that I'm in a better mood by the time I reach your assignments."

Isaac looked over at Stiles once – the dark haired boy rolled his eyes – and then rummaged for his Chemistry notebook in his bag. He set it and his textbook on the desk in front of him, bent over the pages, and set about his homework earnestly. Stiles followed suit begrudgingly, and flipped listlessly through the pages of his tattered text. Pages 125 to 140, on Aqueous Solutions of Ionic Compounds and Precipitation Reactions of Ions in Solution, were loose, partially separated from the spine, while the ten pages or so on Pi Molecular Orbitals were ripped completely free and shoved inside haphazardly. There was a dark brown stain on one page and Stiles picked at it with his fingernail.

The second hand clicked by slowly on the oversized clock – _tick, tick, tick;_ the minute hand heaved itself into the fraction of space between the numbers. Mr. Harris' pen _scratch, scratch, scratched_ at the papers – flourishes of check marks and angry Xs, the flick of his wrist fluid like that of an orchestra conductor; notes of criticism were etched into the margins and red circles entrapped wrong answers and screamed, "Look at this mess! What are you, an idiot?" Isaac's finger sailed soundlessly across the paper, followed by the line of his eyes, the faint rustle of mass-produced parchment (another tree killed) as he turned the page. He read neither quickly nor slowly, but at a steady consistent pace. The printed black words, glossy images nestled between sentences, and clipart diagrams with lines and arrows, were contrasted against the white sheet. It was overwhelming at first: all that knowledge, seemingly indecipherable, squeezed and compressed into one book. But as he read, Isaac found the strings of words began to make sense to him. If he flipped often to the glossary in the back, and carefully worked the meaning out in his head, he could actually understand! He could, as Harris had suggested, actually finish his homework during the hour-long detention and have time this evening to…what did he normally do on weekday nights? How did the Stilinskis usually spend their evenings?

To his left, Stiles sighed heavily – for the fourth time. The textbook was open in front of him, but he hadn't turned a page in almost fifteen minutes. Lead had not touched paper, not a single question had been answered. Stiles held the pencil slackly between his fingers and thumb and tapped it rapidly against the desk. _Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap tap tap tap._ The rhythm matched his train of thought as ideas tumbled around in his mind. His eyes were transfixed on the empty chair in front of him, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was somewhere else, trying to unravel the complex and esoteric mysteries of the universe. Stiles was, by nature, a riddler. Not like the villain in Batman – with his flamboyantly colored, question-mark-patterned skin-tight leotard, and his ill intentions. He was curious and clever. He liked knowing and investigating and figuring out solutions to unknowable problems. He _hated_ when he couldn't find the answer.

Surprisingly, this trait didn't apply to his school work. What did math formulas and chemical reactions mean to him? He wasn't smart in the way Lydia Martin was – with her logical brain that could see and define patterns and practicalities. She liked working within order, within a set of pre-established rules and guidelines. He liked chaos, thinking outside the box. He liked finding answers that opened up a million more questions, a billion more possibilities. He was that kid in kindergarten who had always colored outside the lines and colored the grass blue and the sun red.

Stiles had solved a lot of riddles in his young life, but this life-swapping – that was a tricky one.

He bit his bottom lip and rapped the pencil harder against the desk. _Taptap taptap taptap taptap taptaptaptaptap._ Isaac had found a highlighter in his bag and was _squeeeeaking_ it across the page of his textbook. Stiles started to tap his foot against the floor in anxious concentration, the rhythm beating in opposition to that of his pencil. The flat and oddly hollow sound of a sneaker hitting vinyl tile. Outside the window a crow perched on a tree branch and began a chorus of loud, hoarse caws.

Harris glared at each of the boys in turn, his eyes settling on Stiles and shooting burning, scathing daggers. The boy was oblivious. His leg continued its restless motion that perfectly matched the alphabetical condition a school psychologist had used to label the workings of his brain. The crow cawed louder, and Harris bit down on his thumb to keep himself from opening the window, reaching out, and wringing the bird's neck.

Harris stood abruptly, the back legs of his chair scraping metallically. "I'm going to the teacher's lounge for a cup of coffee. No talking while I'm gone." The teacher managed the self-restraint necessary not to slam the door behind him, leaving it open so he could hear any ruckus, but they could hear his frustrated grumblings and his hurried, heavy steps as he stomped down the hall.

Stiles didn't waste any time. "Hey, Isaac."

"What?"

"I've been thinking a lot about our…predicament. I think if we knew the source of the swap, then maybe we could figure out how to reverse it. Usually when body-swapping occurs in movies and stuff-"

"We didn't body swap."

"Huh?"

"We didn't swap bodies. We swapped lives."

"Right, but there aren't as many instances of that occurring in popular media. As I was saying: when a swap occurs in film – 'Freaky Friday,' 'The Change-Up,' 'Wish Upon a Star,''Shrek the Third-'"

Isaac scoffed. "'Shrek?' Seriously?"

"Yes. Now shut up and listen. All those movies involved an element of magic and wishing, right? Magic fortune cookies, wishing fountain, shooting star, teleportation spell. It's a combination of an _object_ and a wish, a desire, or a need. In our case, what would the wish have been? I mean, if I was wishing to swap lives with anyone it'd probably be Johnny Depp or Tom Cruise, or Bill Gates or something. I definitely wouldn't pick you. No offense." Isaac nodded that no offense had been taken. He wouldn't have wished for his own life either, and Stiles didn't even know the beginning of what went on beneath the surface.

It was just like Stiles, when he considered swapping lives, to choose men who were rich and famous, adored by women. Isaac didn't blame hum. If you posed the question to a hundred guys – "if you could swap lives with anyone in the world, who would you choose?" – most of them would answer in the same way. They would hardly need to think about it. They'd choose someone they admired or envied, an idol or role model, a guy on television who had achieved everything their teenage brains had ever dreamed of attaining. Isaac wished it was that simple for him, but it wasn't.

Isaac wished he could be normal and wish to swap lives with celebrities and athletes like other boys would. But he wasn't, and he hadn't. Such as his life was, when he looked at the lives around him, the people he passed daily in the hallways at school, the guys he interacted with on a regular basis, almost any life was better than his own. They all took their middle-class upbringings, their overprotective and sentimental parents, their safe and cozy homes, for granted. He had compared Stiles' life with his own, and despite the similarities (they had lost their mothers at an early age, were the same age, on the same lacrosse team, being raised by single fathers), how wide the gap between their circumstances seemed. He hadn't wished for wealth or women, for fame or success. He merely wanted a happy home and a loving father.

Stiles was still talking, but Isaac was barely listening. "…the object could be. But maybe it's not an _object_ at all. Not something portable. Maybe it's a location. Like the mine! Maybe the mine isn't haunted but supernatural, and it swapped our lives. We were both there last night! Hmm, but Scott was too, and his life hasn't changed. At least, not that I've noticed. Have you? Isaac? Isaac. Are you listening? Hey, Isaac!"

"Hmm? What?"

"I was asking you if you had noticed anything different with Scott."

"No. Everyone else seems pretty much the same."

"Yeah, I think so too. If it was the cave that swapped us, I think Scott would have been affected too. I'll have to keep thinking about it."

Isaac didn't want to keep thinking about it. For once in his life, he wanted to shut his mind off completely. He didn't want to worry or think about the consequences of his actions. He didn't want to wonder about the chain of events he had set in motion, or question what would happen when those events finally came to a head, when this dream finally ended or exploded in his face, like everything inevitably did. He didn't want to think about Stiles or the fact that he had usurped his life out from under him. He didn't want to think about what would happen, when the time finally came, when he had to tell Stiles that he was the one who had made the wish – earnestly, but never believing it would come true. He didn't want to even talk to or look at Stiles, fearing the words that would emerge from his mouth if he gave his tongue license to speak, the guilt in his stomach that built and twisted at his gut each time he noticed the purple skin peeking out of the top of the turtleneck.

Isaac shifted the textbook closer to his body, using it as a banal shield to protect himself from the thoughts attempting to lay siege to his mind. "Mr. Harris could return any moment," he suggested, "I don't think we should keep talking, in case he hears us."

Stiles laughed. "When a teacher leaves the room, of course students are going to talk."

"Do you want to get Harris mad at you again?" Isaac snapped, and surprisingly Stiles shut up. He wasn't scared of Harris or his rules, not really, but he remembered vividly the scene that morning, the hate and wrath that had spewed out of Harris' mouth and his inability to stop it.

Mr. Harris returned to the classroom with only five minutes of detention remaining, a coffee in one hand, a half-eaten donut in the other. As he walked up the hallway, the only sound he heard was the tapping on his thick heels. The silence concerned him; it was worse than the loud chatting and laughter he had expected. Silence was suspicious; in the silence, delinquencies occurred.

He quickened his pace and paused, surprised, at the threshold. He had expected "Breakfast Club" shenanigans or, in the very least, to discover an empty classroom. Isaac was bent over his desk, scribbling into a notebook, his eyes drifting from the lined paper to his textbook. Stiles was sleeping, his face planted against the desk, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the open page. Harris rolled his eyes. What more had he expected from Misters Stilinski and Lahey? He cleared his throat: "Harumph." Isaac looked up at him. Stiles snored softly. "You boys may leave." He was being extremely generous, returning five minutes to their lives.

Isaac began to clear the supplies from his desk. Stiles slept. Harris cleared his throat again, and in a louder voice proclaimed, "You may go home now, Mr. Lahey." Stiles' fingers twitched, and he released a soft moan. "Mr. Lahey. Stiles!"

Stiles sat up. There was a thin line of blue ink on his cheek. Others might have found his face loveable, endearing. But to Harris that blue line was further proof of the boy's immaturity and profound ability to be irritable. "Huh? What?"

"I said you may leave now, Mr. Lahey. Unless you would like to stay longer?"

"No, sir!" Stiles shoved everything off his desk and into his backpack in one swift sweep of his arm. He jumped up and raced from the room. Isaac was already heading for the front doors. "Hey, wait up!"

Isaac slowed and waited for Stiles to catch up with him. "Do you want a lift home?" he offered.

"My home that used to be your home, or my home that is suddenly your home?"

Isaac's head hurt. Why couldn't Stiles ever just answer questions straight-forwardly? "My dad doesn't like it when you're late for supper."

"I find it hard enough to follow my own father's rules, without adding in your father's."

"Stiles, I'm being serious."

Stiles huffed. "When are you ever anything but serious?"

The sun glinted off the Jeep's windshield. The blue paint absorbed and reflecting the light, shining like a sapphire discovered in the sand, a precious gem in the asphalt, a mythical ice phoenix descended from the sky. It was beautiful. Isaac fished the keys out of his front pocket and jangled them. "Do you want a ride or not?"

"Can I drive?"

"No."

Stiles hadn't sat in the passenger seat of his own vehicle for a long time. Not since the days his mother was alive, when they had taken off-road adventures in this Jeep, and eaten picnics in the woods. He examined and touched everything, feeling like he was seeing it for the first time. He remembered how his father had sat in this chair, his hand pressed firmly against the dashboard, bracing himself as he taught Stiles how to drive the stick-shift. The lurching had been terrible those first few times, but his father had been patient, rewarding his smooth driving with tender claps on the back and hamburgers purchased at a road-side stand. Stiles smiled warmly at the memory.

Then he noticed the rearview mirror. "What the hell?"

"What?" Isaac pried his eyes away from the road long enough to glance quickly at Stiles. "Are you okay?"

"No!" Stiles snatched the offending object from the mirror. "Fuzzy dice! You hung fuzzy dice in my car!" He shook the gaudy neon-green cubes at Isaac.

"I think they're cool."

"How could you?! You've desecrated the Jeep!" Stiles rolled down his window manually. The crank squeaked as the glass slowly lowered.

"What are you – hey!" Stiles tossed the fuzzy dice out the window. They bounced on the curb and onto the sidewalk. "I liked those!"

Stiles cranked his window back into place, panting lightly. His arm felt sore. "You have _no_ taste."

The violent removal of the fuzzy dice had stunted any attempts at conversation, and the boys listened to the radio the remainder of the drive home, letting the pop melodies wrap around them and fill the silence (though, of course, Stiles made one disparaging comment about Isaac's music choice before shutting up). Conversation had never flown easily between the two of them, and neither of them could remember a time when they had actually spent any amount of time alone together. Usually it was Scott who would draw Isaac into Stiles' endless stream of conversation, pointedly asking him questions or directing replies towards him. Alone they were awkward, little more than strangers. Uncomfortable. Stiles shifted in his seat and opened his mouth a couple times as though to speak, but then abruptly shut it again.

The Jeep pulled up in front of the Lahey's tiny house, and Stiles reluctantly climbed out. He stared at it. The first stirrings of unease fluttering in his stomach. He had earnestly hoped he would have woken up by now and discovered this was all a dream. What the heck was he supposed to do in another boy's house, with another boy's father, for an entire night? He swallowed his misgivings and waved his thanks to Isaac.

A faint breeze blew across the yard. The curtains in the living room did not move. The downstairs windows were never open; the only time the curtains stirred was when someone was standing behind them, watching, waitng. Mr. Lahey's car was not in the driveway, but he would be home soon enough. Isaac watched Stiles step off the sidewalk unto the stone path leading up to the house. His heart seemed to catch.

"Stiles!" he called. Stiles paused. He turned around, shielding his eyes with his hand so he could make out Isaac, leaning across the seat to yell out the window.

"What?"

"I, uh...never mind."

"Whatever, dude. See you tomorrow."

"See you."

Isaac drove away from the curb before Stiles entered the house. He didn't want to see him disappear inside, to see the door close behind his friend. _What happens behind closed doors?_ He told himself his father was different in his reality, maybe he treated his son differently. He could easily lie to his brain, but his heart wouldn't be so readily convinced.


	7. Chapter 7: Stilinski, Take Two

**Chapter Seven: Stilinski, Take II**

Isaac had time to kill. He had finished the majority of his homework in detention, but he still had two chapters of a novel to read for English. He figured he could read these before bed; he wasn't in the mood for reading at that moment. Nor for playing video games or watching television. He had never been much of a TV-watching person anyways – mostly because in his household his father had permanent control over the television. Most of the time Isaac couldn't stomach it anyway: sitcoms with their laugh-track covered lies, making everyday life seem fun and normal; crime dramas with their unnecessary gore and brutalized victims who never appeared again (because _they_ weren't the important ones; the investigators were), victimized children and runaways Isaac related with too intimately; reality shows with their stupid scripted dramas and "OMG, everything is the end of the world." It all left a bad taste in his mouth. He was better off without some magical rectangle filling his mind with Hollywood images that made his own life only harder to bear.

Isaac decided he may as well explore the house. He should learn as much about his alternate life as possible. The smoother the transition, the better he played this role, the more he could enjoy it. He took the time to go through his bedroom more intently, pulling books and cds off the shelves, reading the inscriptions on the front pages "To Isaac, love Dad. Christmas 2013." Stuck in the corner of the mirror was a picture of he and Allison, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, staring at her with rapt attention, while her mouth was open in a hearty laugh. He skipped the bathroom (what could he really learn about himself in there?) and checked the other rooms down the hallway. There was a guestroom with a double bed, tastefully accented in beiges golds, and browns, an earthy motif. It was smaller than his bedroom, and he wondered in passing if this room might once have been intended for other children. The brothers and sisters that never came.

Isaac paused at the threshold of the master bedroom. He was absolutely forbidden from entering either his father's or older brother's room. Mr. Lahey seemed to think that if Isaac set foot into these rooms, he was absolutely up to no good: no questions asked. Stealing or snooping, disturbing the dust, or some equally punishable act his father would chastise him for. This was partially to blame for his hesitation – the fear of getting caught – but Isaac also felt just plain awkward. This man wasn't his father – not really; they had no history together. Stilinski was the county sheriff and his friend's dad – that was all he really knew about him. It wouldn't be right for Isaac to invade his personal, private space and look through his things.

Then again, he was insatiably curious. He wanted to know more about Sheriff Stilinski, more about what made him tick, all the little things that added up to the sum of a man like him. He entered slowly, tip-toeing. He held his breath, feeling the strangest thrill pass through his body, as if he was entering a sacred shrine. He was scared to make any noise or disturb a single dust particle. The queen-sized bed was impeccably made. The sheets pulled tight and taunt, the pillow cases perfectly smooth. The military precision of it all was familiar to Isaac. Hadn't his brother's bed been made the same way?

Two nightstands stood on either side of the bed. On the left, rested a lamp, a tattered leather Bible, the pages loose and well-thumbed, and a wedding photo in a gilded frame. On the right sat a matching lamp, an alarm clock, and a library book. Isaac bent down and read the title: _Along Came a Spider_ by James Patterson. So the sheriff was a secret suspense fan, was he? Isaac squatted, titling his upper body parallel to the floor, and resisting the urge to put his hand atop the pristine sheets to keep his balance. There was nothing under the bed – not a single dust bunny – and Isaac felt silly as he straightened up. He had definitely just crossed the line from curious into nosy.

Next Isaac opened the closet door. There was nothing scandalous inside, no skeletons or rifles or doomsday preparation kits, just clothes draped on hangers and labeled boxes. Perfectly pressed shirts and pants. Ties – solid colors and muted patterns, nothing too crazy – rolled up and placed in an open-facing shelf. Polished shoes and tattered jogging sneakers. A formal police uniform ironed smooth and preserved inside plastic. There was a single wooden shelf in the closet – nothing more than a wide, flat board. Isaac had to stand on the tips of his toes in order to look up and reach. The shelf was nearly empty. The formal cap which completed the uniform rested atop a couple folded blankets. There was a cardboard box full of odds and ends and an old shoebox titled "Memories." Isaac took down the shoebox and peeked inside the lid. It was stacked to the brim with photos.

Isaac sat on the edge of the bed and started to flip through them. The photos on the top were the most recent: Isaac in his lacrosse jersey, a group photo of the lacrosse team, he and the sheriff on a fishing trip, Isaac and Allison, his arms folded around her waist and his face nuzzling the crook between her shoulder and neck, he and Scott standing in front of a tent striking 'macho man' poses. Isaac smiled. The photos underneath were older: junior high versions of Scott and Isaac, Scott's hair loose and floppy, hanging in his eyes; Isaac with a triumphant grin, holding up a basketball trophy; he and the sheriff leaning back against a police cruiser laughing. Then came mini versions of Isaac: riding his father's shoulders, wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses, modeling a Halloween costume of Superman, holding a frog he found in the backyard, one of his front teeth missing as he stared gleefully up at the camera. Isaac wished he possessed all the memories that should accompany these photos, the laughter and the good times, the fun and the love.

In the next photo stood a young and handsome Sheriff Stilinski. His uniform was pristine and clean; he wore a wide grin on his face which reached all the way to his eyes. There was more happiness in that smile than in any of the previous photos. A young Isaac hugged his leg, and the man's hand was placed fondly on the back of his head. The sheriff had his right arm wrapped around the waist of a slim woman at his side. She was beautiful, with long brown hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders, and dark, bright eyes. Her left hand rested on the sheriff's abdomen, and Isaac could just make out the thin gold band on her ring finger. He flipped the photo over. In a neat feminine scrawl in blue ink were written the words: "John's first day as sheriff," the date carefully printed underneath.

The woman was present in most of the subsequent photos: hugging Isaac, holding his infant self in her arms, cuddling his pudgy flesh to her face; standing on a porch bathed in sunlight, her hair almost auburn catching and refracting the light like a halo; her lips puckered in the warm glow of candles as she blew out the flames on a birthday cake; candids of mother and child, and just mother – a young woman in pretty floral sundresses. She was exceedingly photogenic, smiling at the camera, her eyes full of good humor, as if she knew a secret she wouldn't share. Or maybe it wasn't about the camera but the person behind the camera. Isaac could tell which photos had been taken by the sheriff; he could practically _feel_ the man's adoration for his wife in every shot.

She de-aged the further back Isaac went; Sheriff Stilinski – before he was sheriff, back when he was just plain old John – returning to youth before his eyes. The wrinkles and years of hardship melting from his face; the vigor of youth and vitality pouring into his physique, his half-cocky smirk. A man with his whole life ahead of him, a life of love and endless possibilities, a world of hope. A long life in which he expected to grow old with his wife.

Isaac recognized the young sheriff's grin. He had seen it a hundred thousand times at school, pulling at the lips of Stiles' mouth. It was a smile Isaac, despite his own happy smile in all the photos, would never be able to accomplish. Stiles had his father's smile and his mother's eyes; pictorial evidence made that fact clear. Isaac felt his stomach drop. He hurriedly shoved the photos back into the shoebox, not bothering to look at the rest – wedding photos and years of dating, two high-school sweethearts in love. He rushed to return the box to the shelf, nearly causing an avalanche of other items in the process.

It was too much. He had made a mistake. This wasn't his life. John Stilinski wasn't his father; Claudia Stilinski wasn't his mother. No matter how well the Universe had switched realities, filling in little details like birth certificates, school records, and photos, fabricated memories and relationships. No matter what those details claimed, Isaac was _not_ the product of Claudia and John's enduring love; he was the genetic product of Lahey's loins. Isaac could never belong here.

Isaac wished he hadn't snooped. The photos were innocent, innocuous, and he had not caused any harm by looking at them, but they were painful. The emotions swirling in his head and scrapping at his heart were agonizing. He felt a million things at once, the result of which just made him nauseous.

He remembered the day they had buried Claudia Stilinski. His own mother had already been dead a few years; he was so young when she died, he hardly had any memories of her, just snatches her and there – the color of her eyes, the shape of her smile, the melody of her voice, fragmented so that he could never seem to fit the pieces together into a coherent whole. He remembered being shocked to see Stiles – a boy his own age. Not many children attended funerals, and if they did it was usually for a grandparent or an obscure great-uncle or aunt they hardly knew or cared about. Stiles had looked so small and pale in his too-big black suit, holding his father's hand with his right, a long-stemmed red rose clutched in his other hand. The image that stood out to Isaac most was how contrasted Stiles seemed in all the black – his pale skin, his brown freckles, his mocha eyes, the scarlet rose– and the tiny beads of blood that dripped down Stiles' hand onto the ground. He had been holding the rose so tightly, the thorns had pierced his skin. But Stiles hadn't seemed to notice the pain or the blood, which surprised Isaac. He thought Stiles must really be sad to be unaware of physical pain. Already at that point in life, pain was becoming an integral part of Isaac's existence.

Isaac remembered that day well. After the mourners had left and they were preparing to fill in the hole – now the eternal resting place of the late Mrs. Stilinski, her brain already rotted from dementia – when his father wasn't looking, Isaac had carefully climbed in and stolen one of the roses from the top of the casket. He had a morbid curiosity to open it and look inside. Though he was young, he had already seen plenty of corpses. He hardly thought of them as people any more, just lifeless dolls his father stuck in the ground. But he wondered what Claudia looked like. Was she pretty? Did she have a sweet smile and rosy lips she had used to kiss boo-boos better? Did she look like she was sleeping? Was she wearing a white dress, like he imagined his mother wearing, bright and brilliant as the sunlight, ready to one day greet him with open arms at the gates of Heaven?

He had pressed the rose inside a heavy, musty dictionary, and as far as he knew it was still there. He hadn't looked at it in years, but he often had in the months following Claudia's funeral. Strangely it made him feel a connection to his own mother – this proof of some other boy's love for his own mom.

Perhaps that day also stood out so significantly in his mind, because that evening his father had flown into a rage (he couldn't recall now about what), and it was the first (but not the last) time a belt had bitten into his tender skin.

Isaac decided he needed a distraction. Something to clear his mind of all these dreary thoughts. He didn't know what time the sheriff would arrive home, but he was suddenly struck with the desire to do something for him. Something to help him relax after a tough day. Isaac started rummaging through the refrigerator and cupboards, taking stock of ingredients. Less- than-fresh vegetables, a significant lack of fruit; slices and packages of meat; boxes and cans of easy-made meals; a freezer stuffed with frozen microwaveable entrees and toaster-ready waffles; processed sugars and cheeses, heaps of starches and cholesterol. Isaac shook his head. Was this always the way the sheriff ate?

Isaac had a couple twenties in his wallet. He walked a couple blocks to the nearest independent grocery store, and purchased everything he thought he would need: fresh vegetables in bright greens, red, and oranges (carrots, peppers, lettuce, onions, the works!), spices and olive oil, eggs and a jug of milk, fresh fruit and a low-fat can of whipped cream. He lugged it all back home in plastic bags, and set to work. He heated a frying pan on the stove, turned on the oven, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands. He was frying chicken, red and yellow peppers, and onions in the pan when the sheriff arrived home from work. "Something smells good!" John commented, kicking his boots off at the front door. He leaned over Isaac's shoulder to see what he was cooking, and through the smells of food, Isaac could smell him: coffee, aftershave, and the musk of sweat, not unpleasant. Earthy and manly. "When will it be ready?"

"Twenty minutes," Isaac guessed.

"Perfect. Just enough time for me to shower and change."

While the meal finished cooking and the sheriff showered, the house's old plumbing groaning and creaking, Isaac set the table. He laid out two place settings and a small vase of wild-flowers he had discovered in the backyard. The plates were white porcelain, wide as moons, and bordered in delicate hand-painted flowers. "Those were a wedding gift from your grandmother," John commented, sitting in his chair at the head of the table. He was clean and fresh, fully-dressed in casual blue jeans and white button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He appeared softer somehow, in the warm kitchen light.

Isaac served him first. The sheriff waited until Isaac had prepared his own plate and was sitting at the table before he started eating. His green eyes dilated as he took his first big mouthful, and his mouth formed a surprised O. "Are you okay?" Isaac was scared the sheriff had burned himself; he should have warned him it was hot. Or maybe Isaac's food tasted disgusting.

"Okay?" the sheriff asked after he'd swallowed. His face broke into a large smile. "This is amazing!" The sheriff shoveled a couple more mouthfuls into his mouth, moaning in satisfaction. Isaac smiled. He was pleased to have brought the sheriff some enjoyment.

"There's dessert too," Isaac hinted playfully.

"Dessert! I didn't even know you could cook!"

They chatted back-and-forth about their days. The sheriff told him about a humorous 911 call they had received about a suspected prowler that had turned out to be the neighbor's dog, and Isaac told him about the pop quiz in calculus, and how confident he was that he had done well. Stilinski devoured the dessert Isaac brought him and leaned back in his chair. He sighed contentedly and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. It was near a perfect a normal family dinner as Isaac could have ever wished for. "That was really good son. I'm impressed. Why did you decide to make dinner tonight? I'm not forgetting any special occasions, am I?"

Isaac smiled. He took the empty plate away from in front of the sheriff and brought it to the sink. Each word of praise Stilinski lavished about him was like a pearl in his hand. "No reason. I just wanted to do something nice for you."

"Well it was very nice, Isaac. Maybe you should cook more often."

Isaac leaned over the table to grab the empty casserole dish from the middle of the table. A reply sat on the tip of his tongue. As he pulled back, his elbow knocked into his half-full glass of water, perched too close to the edge of the table. Before he could comprehend what was happening, the glass tipped over the side and shattered on the floor. Water splashed onto his socks. Sheriff Stilinski stood from his chair abruptly.

Isaac dropped immediately to his knees with a napkin and tried desperate to mop up the mess. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice pinched and pitched, like a little child's. He had screwed up. Once again he had made a mess of everything. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ What a klutz. After the nice dinner they'd had, and he had ruined the evening. John was going to be mad at him.

Sheriff Stilinski came around the table and reached for Isaac's arm. Isaac flinched back and scuttled away from him. His eyes were big and wet, like spilled tea in saucers, but he wouldn't look at the sheriff. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he just kept repeating, using the napkin to sweep shards of glass into one corner. For a moment the sheriff's hand hovered uncertainly in the air and he stared at his son in shock. Finally, the sheriff cautiously and gently gripped Isaac's upper arm, lifted him up, and steered him away from the mess.

"Don't step in the glass. I don't want you to cut yourself. Just stand right there." The sheriff disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a broom. He crouched down so that his knees were bent, balancing on the balls of his feet. He swept the glass and puddles of water into the dust-pan.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Isaac. It's just a glass. It's nothing."

Isaac watched the sheriff's steady movements. He could hear the ticking of the watch strapped onto his wrist. "I got detention today," he said after a moment, his voice little more than a whisper. He didn't know why he was admitting this, but he wanted the sheriff to know. "In Chemistry. I got in trouble for talking back to Mr. Harris."

John paused and looked up at Isaac. "That's not like you."

"He said some horrible things to Stiles."

The sheriff nodded slowly, then he stood and emptied the glass into a garbage can. He propped the broom against the wall, and came over to Isaac. He inspected the teen's face again, and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. Isaac only slightly flinched at the contact. The sheriff gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Don't let it happen again."

"I won't."

"Okay."

Sheriff Stilinski gave Isaac one final stare, his eyes uncertain, as if he were trying to figure something out. He parted his lips, but the question dissolved into a heavy breath through his teeth. He shook his head, as though deciding against something, and went to the coffee percolator on the counter. Isaac suddenly felt tired, and he wanted nothing more than his new bed and a favorite movie. As if reading his mind, the sheriff said, "You made supper, so I'll do the dishes. Why don't you go up to your room?"

Isaac nodded lamely, and headed for the stairs.

"And Isaac?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Isaac's heart squeezed. Joy, sorrow, and guilt tore his heart in equal measure. How bittersweet to hear the words he had always yearned for, but spoken from the wrong mouth. Those three words were meant for someone else, but not for him. He didn't deserve them.

* * *

 **I hope I haven't lost any of you lovely readers because of my sporadic updates! I've never been a very disciplined person.  
** **I promise another update will be coming soon! I've already started on the next chapter and will have it up before the end of this week.  
As always, please leave a review, lovelies. I love hearing from you. **


	8. Chapter 8: Lahey, Take Two

**Chapter Eight: Lahey, Take II**

Stiles was on a mission. He was going to solve this mystery and switch them back. Isaac could have his little room and his creepy dad back; Stiles wanted his Jeep and his own pillow and his father making pancakes for supper because it was the best meal he could cook. He wanted to be back to cracking jokes from the back of the class and hanging out with Scott afterschool. He wanted to be the sheriff's son again – privileged to information and gossip, eating hamburgers and curly fries in the police cruiser. He wanted every part of his life – even the ADHD and overprotective parent.; he did _not_ want to be a Lahey.

Homework could wait. As soon as Isaac dropped him off in front of "his" house (Stiles couldn't bear to watch the Jeep drive away without him), he had gone straight up to Isaac's room ("his" room) to do research. The laptop was an old dinosaur Dell that weighed about a hundred pounds, and the Internet connection was so slow, Stiles was ready to rip his hair out waiting for the Google homepage to load.

Stiles wasn't sure what he wanted to search. How did one even begin to unravel the riddle that was life swapping? It sounded like corny MTV primetime or a bad reality show. He could just imagine the fun the conspiracy theorists on the Web would have with this one. He would probably need to wade through endless junk before he found anything even remotely useful. The Internet was like that: a consuming black-hole of information (usually inappropriate, frightening, ignorant, and dumb), swallowing his time and attention for hours on end – time forever lost in the blink of an eye – often leaving him no wiser at the end and with nothing to show for his efforts. Yet the Internet was his best source of information. If he was going to begin to find answers, the Internet was where he would find them.

He tried directly searching "life swapping." The results on the first page were mostly about a novel of the same title by an author he had never heard of (not that Stiles was much of a reader anyways), dotted here and there with stories of body swapping and people who had given up their old lifestyles in favor of new ones. There were science articles about planets and plant life. There were news stories about how swapping a seat on a plane had saved this man or woman's life, or how such-and-such a celebrity was swapping their fame for family. There was house swapping and the kind of life swapping that inspired the movie "The Holiday" (Stiles was a closet rom-com fan, but he would never, _never_ , even under threat of death, reveal that secret to anyone, including Scott; Stiles had seen that particular movie about a dozen times). There were countless apps for swapping faces and vacation homes, advice on swapping "life stories" and careers. There was a lot of swapping happening, but none of it was of the supernatural (magical? Paranormal? Hallucinatory? Stiles didn't know what the hell it was) variety he was looking for.

When he had exhausted that search, he decided to try "body swapping;" though it failed to encompass the situation, it was the closet term he could think of to describe what was happening. Sixteen million results. The first was an article from Wikipedia, which he gave a cursory glance. It defined body swapping as an exchanging or trading of minds between two different bodies, but this wasn't what had happened to him and Isaac. Stiles was still in his own body, and he still had his own brain; he had just somehow ended up _living_ the life that had belonged to Isaac. And only he and Isaac knew about it.

He found free online magical spells, and though he was skeptical, he wrote a few of them down (because you never know, right?). He read articles detailing the science of why body swapping could be possible: head transplants, mind uploading, reincarnation, drugs, and skin suits (that was an image Stiles didn't need in his head). The most popular body swaps seemed to occur between generations, social classes, and genders. There were, he noted, very few stories of body swapping involving two people of the same age, gender, socio-economic class, and hometown. The mechanics, as far as he had gleaned, to body swapping successfully involved intention, desire, and (as he had already figured out) a mystical object, location, or person. Pointless. This was absolutely pointless. He wasn't getting anywhere. Stiles could have figured all of this out on his own. He needed something concrete on which he could base his next moves.

Maybe he needed to narrow his focus. Maybe instead of starting broadly, he needed to start with specifics and then continue to narrow his research as he went.

The facts, as far as Stiles knew them:

1.Yesterday he, Scott, and Isaac had gone to the abandoned mine.

2.He had bumped his head – which resulted in a little blood loss and a major headache, but (fortunately) not a concussion.

3.His father had picked them up and driven them home – Isaac to his house, Scott to his. Nothing had seemed odd or abnormal.

4.He had gone to sleep in his own bed.

5.He had woken up in Isaac's room.

6.He was sore all-over. (Was this a side-effect of the life swapping? He should have asked Isaac this morning how he was feeling. He'd have to make a mental note to do that tomorrow.)

7.Mitch Lahey was convinced Stiles was his son.

8.John Stilinski thought Isaac was his son.

9.Stiles wanted his own life back.

A massive change had occurred between going to sleep and waking up. If he believed in magic – which he didn't – he might have been tempted to believe a witch had cast a spell on them. But he didn't believe in magic, he didn't know any witches, and other than his father and his friends, Stiles hadn't interacted with any other people during that timeframe. He still wasn't convinced this wasn't a hyper-vivid head-injury induced dream, but if it was, it was the most realistic dream he had ever experienced. He spread the fingers of his left hand in front of his face and counted: One, two, three, four, five. In a dream, he would not have the correct number of fingers. He counted again, and a third time just to be certain: One, two, three, four, five. It was the same no matter how many times he counted.

Someone cleared their throat. Stiles turned in his seat, his hand hovering awkwardly in front of his face. Lahey was standing in the doorway, watching him. He wondered how long the man had been standing there. He hadn't even heard him come into the house, much less up the stairs and into the room. "What are you doing?" The question sounded causal enough, but Stiles had the sense there was an accusation laced within those words.

"Uh, homework?"

"Are you asking me if you're doing your homework, or are you actually doing it?"

Stiles spoke with more purpose, the lie slipping so smoothly from his tongue it sounded like truth. "I'm doing homework. Math homework. I was just counting."

"Did you forget it was your night to cook supper?"

"Huh?"

Lahey sighed and shook his head, cursing God that he should have been given such an idiot for a son. A boy whose purpose in life seemed to be to continually try his father's patience. What had he done in his past life to deserve such trials and tribulations? "I told you I was working late this afternoon, and it was your responsibility to have supper on the table. It is currently," Lahey checked his wrist watch, "6:15pm. I'm going to take a shower and change. Supper had better be on the table by the time I'm done."

Or what? This man apparently didn't feel the need to add any qualifying information to his clauses. "Yes, sir."

Stiles headed downstairs immediately, and stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, unsure what to do. He had never cooked in his life – aside from toast, the occasional waffle or microwave dinner, and shoving a bag of popcorn in the microwave – and he had no idea where anything was in the unfamiliar kitchen. Upstairs the shower turned on, and the hot water pipes groaned and creaked in the old house. Stiles started opening and closing cupboard doors. He had no idea what he was doing, or what he should even be looking for. How could he be expected to throw something together in such a short time period? What was he going to make?

Stiles could feel the time slipping away from him. His ears were alert and attuned to the upstairs bathroom, listening to the water pour from the facet and for any change. Finally he was saved by a familiar blue and orange box stored among the other non-perishables in the pantry. "Yes!" Kraft Macaroni and Cheese! Anyone could make Kraft mac and cheese!

He read the directions on the label: great, all he needed was water, milk, and butter. That sounded simple enough. He could do this! He searched for a saucepan, filled it with water, placed it on the stove, and jacked the burner temperature up to high. The hotter the temperature, the faster the pasta would cook, right? He ripped open the top of the box and dumped the macaroni in the pot.

While the water boiled, he bent into the refrigerator and sought the necessary dairy products. He discovered an unopened package of hot dogs and in a moment of (what he considered) pure brilliance, he decided he would fry up some wieners to eat with the mac and cheese. Processed cheese and meat by-products – he was hitting all the necessary culinary food groups!

Stiles carefully used a steak knife to slice into the packaging, and tossed all ten jumbo wieners into a pan. He jacked the heat on this burner up to the maximum. Mmm, he loved the smell of sizzling meat. Only…the sizzling was too loud. Stiles glanced over at his pot. The lid was wobbling back and forth rapidly, water spewing out in steamy, frothy bubbles, boiling over the side and onto the red-hot element. Stiles released a noise between a shriek and a gasp. Instinctually he reached for the pot lid, sloshing scalding hot water onto the floor and his hand. "Ouch!" Stiles shoved his burned fingers in his mouth, and with the other hand safely shielded by a dish-towel, turned the burner off and removed the lid from the pot. The noodles were fat and pale. Weren't they supposed to be orange?

Oh, right! The packet in the box! Stiles added a huge glob of margarine using a spoon, poured the milk directly from the jug, ripped open the packet of synthetic cheese powder, and dumped it in. He stirred the gooey mess with a long wooden spoon. See? Cooking wasn't so hard. He was doing awesome.

Stiles left his noodle mixture to settle (which he thought sounded very cook-like; he was a natural), and started to set the table. All the plates and glasses in the cupboard were mismatched; there was not a single complete set in any one pattern. He placed two plates on the table: one round, the other square; two glasses, two forks, two knives, and a mug for Lahey (he was thinking ahead, guessing that if the man was anything was like his own father, he would want an after-supper coffee). He put the bottle of ketchup and a pitcher of water in the middle of the table. So far so good.

Upstairs the water shut off in the shower. Stiles went back to his noodles. He frowned. Instead of the glorious orange goodness he was expecting, his noodles were a slippery, liquidy mess. The cheese hadn't stuck to the noodles, instead dissolving into the hot milky-water. Stiles grabbed the box and scanned the directions. He didn't understand. He had done everything right, he had…wait. Add macaroni – check. Cook 7 to 8 minutes, stirring occasionally – the stirring was a check, but the cook-time; was that a minimum or a maximum? He had definitely cooked the macaroni at least eight minutes, probably longer. Almost five extra minutes longer…but that was no big deal. That wouldn't make a difference, right? Add margarine, milk, and cheese mix: check. Stir well: check. Drain macaroni before adding ingredients? Damn. He had forgotten to drain the noodles first, so now he was left with a mucky, cheesy soup. Maybe if he spooned it onto the plates it would look better.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs. "Stiles, what's that smell?"

His hotdogs! He had left the hot-dogs frying too long! The bottoms of the wieners were black and crispy; they had bloated and long seams had split down the middles, like a fat man trying to put on a too-tight t-shirt. Stiles forked a couple onto the plate beside a pile of runny mac and cheese, and sheepishly set the plate in front of Lahey, before serving himself.

Lahey was wearing his perma-frown. He poked at the mess on his plate with a fork, his nose curled in distaste. Stiles heaped his fork with a big helping of macaroni. He shoved it into his mouth enthusiastically, hoping to prove to Lahey that the meal was better than it looked. The texture of the noodles was gooey and slimy, clinging to the roof of his mouth. Stiles gagged and spit the mouthful back onto his plate.

Lahey pushed his own plate away from him, and grabbed his glass. He took a long drink of water, staring at Stiles over the rim. Stiles felt stupid and silly; he looked down at his plate. "I could order a pizza," he suggested.

"You might have had more time to prepare a decent meal if you had arrived home on-time today."

Stiles was shocked. He looked up and into the man's eyes, trying to figure out if Lahey was baiting him, trying to trick him into fessing up, fishing for information, or if he actually knew something. Stiles may not have been a good cook, but he could play this game well. He had a father in law enforcement. Stiles was adept at tip-toeing around the truth.

The best tacit in these situations was always the same: invoke the Fifth Amendment, exercise your right to remain silent.

It drove his father crazy.

However Lahey had apparently not expected an answer. His steely gaze was locked on Stiles, even as his fingers slowly stroked the smooth surface of his glass. "I was speaking to Mike Crewe at the gas station earlier."

"Who?"

"Mike Crewe. Your bus driver."

"Oh." Realization dawned on Stiles. He breathed out the word a second time, "oh."

"Yes, 'oh.' He claimed you weren't on the bus this afternoon."

"No, I, uh," Lahey's earlier warning from that morning, that Stiles needed to stay away from the Stilinski family, echoed loudly in his head. "I missed it, so I walked home."

"Why would you miss the bus?"

Stiles could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and a shiver ran down his spine. He was caught; he knew it. There was no lie he could craft in that moment that would sound plausible. He would have to admit the truth. It was no big deal, right? Just one afternoon of detention.

"Stiles, I'm waiting."

"I, uh…"

"Speak up."

"I had detention. From Mr. Harris."

"You miss the bus because you had detention with Mr. Harris, your-"

"Chemistry teacher."

"Right, your chemistry teacher." Lahey's index finger traced patterns on his glass, and he titled it up, considering the shimmering liquid inside. The glass was half-full. "You had detention with your chemistry teacher."

"Yes." Why did Lahey keep repeating what he said? How much simpler could he explain it?

"I see." Lahey took another sip from his glass.

"It won't happen again, I –"

The glass flew through the air. Stiles could feel the rush of air as the cup flew past his face and shattered on the wall behind him. Water dripped down the wall in tear-sized droplets. Stiles froze. He didn't know what to do; there was no way that had been an accident. The glass hadn't been knocked off the table. It had flown through the air, with aim, with might, with intention. Stiles wondered if Lahey had meant to hit a little further to the left…

Lahey was out of his chair, standing with his palms flat against the table. He wasn't a tall man, of average height and build, but he seemed to tower over Stiles. The evil all-seeing Sauron, the flaming eye on the mountain; nothing could escape his gaze or the path of his destruction. "You're damn right it won't happen again! No son of mine gets detention!"

"It was–"

"Don't give me any of your pathetic excuses! Your grades have been horrible this semester, especially in Chemistry! I didn't have a son just for him to grow up into a dunce!" Lahey closed the space between them in two quick strides. Up close, Stiles could see the man's nostrils flaring in his red face. There was stubble on his upper lip, and two long hairs stuck out of his left nostril. A blue vein pulsed in his temple and along his neck, reminding Stiles of the villain Bane in Batman.

Stiles couldn't move or react. His shock rendered him a deer in headlights. Blinded by surprise, by the seeming randomness and abrupt escalation of Lahey's rage. He shrank back, trying to blend into the chair and make himself as small as possible. Hopefully avoid the oncoming hurricane of Lahey's wrath.

Lahey grabbed his wrist and yanked him up out of his chair. "Idiot! You're a goddamn idiot! A fucking little screw-up with alphabet soup for brains!" Lahey drilled his fist into the side of Stiles' head, and the boy squinted against the pain. "What kind of fuck-up can't even cook Kraft Dinner?! You expect me to eat this garbage?" Lahey swiped Stiles' plate off the table and smashed it against the floor tile. Shards of porcelain bounced. The gooey mess stuck to the floor. Slices of meat scattered. "You can't even complete the simplest jobs without fucking up! You damn retard."

Lahey swung out with his right arm suddenly, knocking Stiles on the side of the head and face. Stiles wasn't expecting it and the force of the blow sent him reeling backward. He fell back against the wall. Lahey didn't pause in his rampage, filling the air with profanities and accusations, cursing his worthless, idiotic son. Lahey's own plate crashed to the floor, followed by his mug and the ketchup bottle, exploding on impact and spraying thick globs of ketchup like blood.

Lahey grabbed Stiles' glass, which was mostly empty, and threw it. This time the glass hit its mark, glass grazing flesh, opening a wide gash on the boy's left cheek. His blood was warm and coppery, dripping from the cut and raining onto the dirty tiles. He reached up his hand, and stared in surprise when it came back red.

Lahey's war-path subsided, but his temper was still foul. "I'm going down to the tavern for some real food," he snapped, grabbing his jacket off the hook by the back door. "Clean up this mess before I get home. All of it." Stiles nodded mutely. "And Stiles? No more detentions. Except for lacrosse practices, I want you on that bus and on your way home straight after school, are we clear?"

Stiles nodded his head again, keeping his face turned away so Lahey wouldn't see the hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"I said, 'Are we clear'?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Lahey grabbed his car keys and slammed the door behind him. Stiles looked around the room, spattered and messy, glass and porcelain littering the floor like amateur booby-traps. It looked like someone had ransacked the house. Or a tornado had blown through the kitchen .

Stiles waited until he heard the engine turn over and fade away down the street. Then he pressed his back against the wall and slid down. Bum resting on the cool tile, knees bent. In the silence, he covered his face with his hands, and Stiles cried.


	9. Chapter 9: Lacrosse

**Chapter Nine: Lacrosse**

Stiles was waiting early for the bus the next morning, wearing a black hoodie and bruises. The sweater was faded to the color of iron, the hood pulled low over his eyebrows, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of square aviator sunglasses. The lenses were mirrored, hiding Stiles' discolored brown eyes. Lahey watched him from the front porch, dressed in his work jeans and slippers, a mug of coffee in one hand, a rolled-up newspaper in the other. Stiles stared at his sneakers while he waited, the frayed laces and scuffed toes. It required great strength of will to keep him anchored in place, when what he really wanted to do was run. Run down the street, down the block, straight out of town, and deep into the woods, where he could hide himself in dirt and leaves and eat wild berries for sustenance. He'd go somewhere they would never find him – or, if they did, they'd discover his partially frozen and malnourished corpse. The police would hum and haw, and purse their lips. Just another teenage runaway, another statistic, another preventable tragedy. A boy no one cared about or stepped in to save. Maybe the sheriff would find him and shed a few tears, but then he'd forget the boy who had once been his son's friend. Another photo, another case file, to be tucked into the corner of his office.

If a person died in his dreams, he woke up. But Stiles knew he wasn't dreaming. If he died here…well, he didn't want to find out.

There were a few other kids waiting at the bus stop with Stiles: a boy glued to his handheld game-system, and a pair of best friends – young girls trying too hard to be their clueless versions of 'grown ups,' laughing and chattering, casting their wide, narrow-minded net of judgment on anyone who wasn't like them, punctuating their sentences with the words "like" and "OMG" and "and then" annoyingly too often. If he was back in his own life, Stiles might have made a sarcastic comment, something to knock those girls down a couple pegs. He _would_ have, if he was a Stilinski. If he felt even remotely like himself. A part of him had been changed last night – he wasn't sure which part yet, but he knew he didn't like it.

The trio ignored him. Stiles was happy to be ignored.

The bus ground to a stop beside the curb, its front wheel halfway on the sidewalk, litter tumbling in its wake. The tail pipe coughed out a black cloud. The doors swung open, and Stiles hung back while the trio of youth boarded the precariously parked vehicle. He wondered if there was still time to make a break for it. "Stiles," Lahey called. The teen paused, his foot on the first step. "I'll be picking you up after your lacrosse game. Don't keep me waiting." The words seemed innocent, but Stiles heard the warning. He nodded his understanding, though Lahey had shifted his attention away from him. "Morning, Mike!" he shouted, saluting the bus driver with his newspaper. Mike Crewe leaned forward in his seat to smile and wave back.

Normally Stiles would have been embarrassed by such a scene: his middle-aged father in slippers, saying goodbye to his son from the front porch, waving to the bus driver and the neighbors like a pathetic, middle-class version of Mr. Rogers. Sheriff Stilinski had often embarrassed Stiles: pulling the police cruiser up to the curb to remind him of curfew, showing up to _every_ parent-teacher conference, even when Stiles begged him not to bother, pouring verbal affection over Stiles in front of his peers. But Stiles couldn't be embarrassed by Lahey. He would have had to feel a measure of connection to the man in order to have felt embarrassed by him.

Stiles quietly boarded the bus, pausing in front of Mike in his fat driver's seat. He wondered if the man could feel his accusatory stare behind his sunglasses. _Do you know?_ He wanted to ask. _Do you know what he does? Do you know, and yet you chose to rat on me anyways? Do you know and just purposefully ignore it? Purposefully choose not to help me? Or are you just plain stupid and nosy? Do you like gossiping about kids with their parents? Prick. I bet you're some kind of pervert. You see me every,_ every single day _– how could you_ not _know?_

The driver's reflection was mirrored small and orange-tinged in the boy's lenses. He shifted uneasily under the all-seeing gaze. He couldn't read the boy's expression. He had no idea what the punk was thinking. "Hurry up and sit down," Mike demanded gruffly. Stiles glared at him one second longer. He wished he could shoot lasers out of his eyes, like the X-Men's Cyclops. The man was unable to look at his own image any longer; he turned forward and put the bus into gear. "Sit down." Stiles nodded slightly and took his seat. Only ashamed men, he decided, couldn't face their own reflections.

The ride to school was boring and uneventful, but Stiles could feel every lurch and pothole, striking up through his body. He winced and tried to hold himself aloft. When the bus arrived, he waited until all the other students had exited before he slouched off after them. Mike watched him warily in the rearview mirror. His eyes were two dark pinholes of judgment. Stiles stepped onto the concrete, resisted the urge to give the driver the middle finger, and sighed. It was only eight am, and he was already exhausted.

Stiles kept his head down as he hurried to his locker. He didn't want to draw attention; no one seemed to notice him anyway. He spun his dial combination and started pulling out the necessary textbooks for his morning classes. He hoped the day would pass quickly – and yet he feared final bell, when he would have to go 'home' again.

Stiles slammed the door shut, and nearly jumped out of his skin. Isaac was standing on the other side of his locker. "Jeez! You scared me!"

"Sorry." Isaac had always been quiet on his feet. A consequence of living in a volatile household. He inspected his friend closely, and Stiles shifted under his gaze. "Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?" he asked, fearful he already knew the answer.

"I have a headache. The light's bothering my eyes." Stiles removed his eyewear slowly, folded the shades, and stuffed them into a pocket of his backpack. He met Isaac's eyes, determined to act as if nothing was wrong. A dark purple bruise bloomed around Stiles' left eye, and there was a deep cut on his right cheek. Not deep enough for stitches, but still red and raw, as though it had bled copiously.

 _He hit him. Oh God, he actually hit Stiles._ Accusatory thoughts screamed loudly at Isaac, castigating his willful ignorance, his foolish attempts to convince himself that in this reality – in any reality – Mitch Lahey could be a warm and loving father, that, in the very least, he would keep his fists to himself. A leopard doesn't change its spots. A crocodile doesn't shed tears for the vicious bite of its teeth. A snake always strikes the heel. Isaac should have known better. In Mitch Lahey's eyes, the world was divided into two types: the weak and the strong, the predator and the prey. His son was the personal punching bag through which he maintained his power and authority. King of the mountain. The weak are beaten into the earth.

Yet, Isaac did not say anything to Stiles. He could not find the words.

"Are you guys excited for the game tonight? Woah! What happened to your eye?" Scott had caught sight of his friends from down the hall, striding quickly toward them. Stiles' back was to him, as he talked to Isaac, but when he turned at the sound of his best friend's voice, the sight of Stiles wiped the cheerful smile off Scott's face. Stiles was sporting the worst black-eye Scott had ever seen. There was a nasty gash on his cheek bone, thin and crusted.

"I was practicing for tonight's game, and wouldn't you know it – I hit myself square in the face. Guess I'm not getting any better." Stiles laughed at himself, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. Scott nodded and said nothing, but he wasn't convinced.

The lie had rolled fluidly and easily off Stiles' tongue. No hesitation, no searching for words or excuses. _Is that the way I lie?_ Isaac wondered. _Has it become that second-nature to me?_ Then he caught the meaning of their conversation. "Game?" he asked. "What game?"

Scott wheeled on him quickly. "'What game'? You're the team captain! Don't tell me you forgot about the championship qualifying game tonight!"

"No, I, uh, just…yeah, I forgot."

As Scott and Isaac began a heated discussion about lacrosse games and tactics, Stiles quickly slipped his sunglasses back on. The fewer the questions and looks he received today, the better. He had been swift with that excuse, finding it simpler than he expected to lie to his best friend, but he couldn't tell Scott the truth. Isaac had noticed his injuries, but he hadn't said anything. Maybe he was too polite and awkward to ask. Maybe the bruises weren't a cause for alarm. _Maybe he has no idea,_ Stiles thought. Last night as he laid aching and miserable in bed, Stiles had pondered the truth he had discovered about the Lahey household. He was ashamed and appalled to think his friend had been living with this kind of abuse and he had never known, never seen, but maybe Isaac hadn't been. He seemed oblivious to Stiles' condition now. Maybe Lahey hadn't been violent toward Isaac in his own life. Gruff, sure. Stiles had noticed how unfriendly and abrupt the man's manner had always been, but maybe he had never been physically aggressive towards Isaac. If he had been, surely Isaac would have said something. Anything. Surely he would have noticed Stiles' injuries and spoken up, would have warned him last night when he dropped him off.

He could ask. Stiles wasn't afraid to ask straight-forward questions point-blank. He didn't have the same filters as other people. He wasn't afraid to be blunt. But, no, he couldn't ask: "Hey Isaac, did your dad ever, you know, hit you?" He was too ashamed and too nervous. He couldn't bring Isaac into this. Not now. He just needed to figure this out on his own and reverse the wish. Before he let the truth slip. Before Lahey did something worse.

"Are you coming Stiles?" He had fallen behind. His friends were stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for him.

"Yeah." Stiles jogged to catch up, trying ineffectually to silence the nagging doubts in his head that wondered what it was about _him,_ about Stiles himself, that made a man want to beat his son.

 ** _TEENWOLF_**

The pre-game warm-up after school was excruciating. With every drill they ran, Stiles' muscles burned. His head ached. His skin ached. Even his teeth ached. He panted on the sidelines, attempting to catch his breath, and Coach Finstock would reprimand him, making unflattering comparisons between Stiles' ability and that of Finstock's dead grandmother. He tripped three times, at least once over his own feet. He was struck in the face by the ball and accidentally hit himself with his own lacrosse stick. He was naturally pretty clumsy, but this practice was far beyond anything Stiles had experienced. He didn't know how he was going to survive the actual game.

As the boys hustled back into the locker room to prepare for that evening's match, Coach pulled Stiles aside. "I'm benching you, Lahey." _Thank God!_ Stiles could have kissed him. "You sucked out there. You really did. I don't know if gravity's working against ya, or ya just forgot how to use your feet, but you're sitting out tonight."

"Yes, Coach."

"And your eye looks terrible. I hope you didn't get that during practice." Stiles shook his head. "Good. Cause I don't want a group of concerned parents breathing down my neck about liabilities and safety."

Isaac was practically glowing. He was pumped up, feeling great, and the rest of the team fed off his excitement. He couldn't remember a better practice. His adrenalin was up, he was glistening with sweat, and he felt more alive than….well, then he ever had. He knew he had rocked the drills. Coach had told him to "save some for the game," but he had caught the man's approving grin.

Tonight he was going to leave it all on the field. He was going pummel the other team. For once, he was going to win.

Isaac was wired. Usually afraid to speak in front of groups, the pep talk he gave his team members seemed to sing out of him. The right words rolled off his tongue without him even having to think about then, and he could see the gleam in the boys' eyes as he spoke. The hunger for glory. They would follow their leader anywhere, and that felt amazing.

They were playing the Sunnydale Razorbacks – a team composed of big, mean jocks built like tanks. Isaac appeared small and slender compared to their beefy captain. The lights were bright and blinding, casting shadows across the field. The stands were filled with cheering spectators holding banners and posters. Isaac caught a glimpse of Allison's pretty face in the crowd, smiling widely with her dazzling pearly whites. She and Lydia held up a glittery homemade sign praising the Beacon Hills captain.

The ref entered the field. White puffs of breath swirled from the mouths of helmets into the cool air. The players stamped their feet and shifted their sticks, their muscles taut and ready. Tension covered the field in a thick layer of electricity. Isaac looked up at the opposing captain and gave him a cocky, crooked smile. The starting whistle blew, and the game began.

The field was a blur of burgundy and gold. Sticks were wielded like the spears of caveman, crashing after their prey. The ball was passed and intercepted. Isaac scored the first goal in under two minutes. His pulse thrummed in his neck and wrist; he could feel the blood pounding hotly through his veins. His stick was an extension of his arm, an instrument as natural as the rest of him, moving in perfect rhythm with his body. He was fast, and he was agile. Dodging, running, leaping over fallen players and obstacles like a gazelle. The crowd was already chanting his name. On the field, he was king.

Stiles was going wild from the bench. He was on his feet, cheering, with every goal. His friends were amazing – especially Isaac. Who knew the boy could play like that? The captain and his wingman seemed to have an unspoken language between them, as though they always knew exactly where the other person was, and what he was thinking the instant he thought it. If Scott intercepted the ball, Isaac was already prancing down the field to score. Jackson was almost as good, crashing his way through players and seizing the ball. It was exhilarating, and for a moment Stiles forget about his injuries and troubles. He was caught up in the tide of excitement. He shouted, and grabbed and shook the Coach's arm when Isaac scored again. They were up by seven points at half-time. They were unbeatable.

Then: disaster. The Razorbacks caught on, and they weren't afraid to play dirty. Bodies were being tossed and tackled left and right. Penalties were being given out liberally. It was only a matter of time before fists started flying. A couple of guys set their sights on Isaac. He had the ball and was flying towards the goal, weaving fast as lightning between players who were locked in battle, like male deer locking antlers in the forest in alpha grudge matches. Two Sunnydale midfielders were closing in on Isaac when suddenly – _bam!_ – their attack was blocked by a bumbling Greenburg. Blood sputtered, curse words were shouted, and the great hulk that was Greenburg collapsed to the ground on his back – falling like Jack's beanstalk giant.

The ref blew his whistle. Coach Finstock descended on the field like an angry bear, shouting and spitting, getting dangerously close to punching minors. Greenburg ripped off his helmet and clasped his nose. His fingers were slick with the blood pouring out of his nose, gushing like a faucet he couldn't turn off. Stiles' stomach churned at the sight. Scott helped his teammate to stand and led him over to the home bench. "I think he broke my nose!" Greenburg yelled, his angry voice tinged with blubbers of pain. He opened his hands to show the damage to Scott. His nose was definitely crooked. Scott knew it wouldn't set the same way again. "It'll be okay," Scott encourage. "Just tilt your head back. That will help the bleeding."

Each team was down a player. Only one of the Razorback midfielders was penalized and forced to sit out the remainder of the game, and Greenburg was out of commission. "Damn it," Coach swore. He examined the handful of extras available to him, and sighed. "Stiles, you're in!"

"What?" How desperately Stiles had longed to hear those words since freshman year, but he couldn't. Not now. He'd be pummeled, obliterated. Annihilated! "Why me? Earlier you said-"

"I know what I said, but look at this mess." Coach gestured to the bench. A medic was crouched down in front of Greenburg, and Freeman was icing a knee that was already starting to swell. McKnight took a deep inhale of his puffer to calm his nervous asthma, and Young repositioned his glasses on his face. "I've got two good players out of commission, a kid as blind as a bat, and another one who'd die of an asthma attack before he crossed half the field. So it's gotta be you, Lahey. Go!"

Stiles donned his helmet and stumbled onto the field. He took his position, and Scott sent him an encouraging smile. He answered with a grimace. This was going to hurt.

The whistle blew, the last quarter resumed, and it was mayhem. Players were bashing each other all over the place. Slashing, tripping, illegal cross-checking. There were too many fouls happening for the ref to catch them all. The sound of wood hitting wood, sticks and helmets cracking together, reverberated across the field. In the stands, the fans were going crazy. It was a screaming match to see who could shout for their team the loudest. Stiles felt like the sickly zebra among a pack of lions. He was doing his best not to get hit. "Lahey, get in there!" Coach shouted, but Stiles ignored him.

It was the longest seven minutes of his life, as Stiles counted down the seconds until the end of the game. From his position, he couldn't see the scoreboard, but he didn't care anymore who won. He just wanted to make it out of this alive and in one piece. Two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds. He was _so_ close. He saw Danny steal the ball and pass it to Scott, who raced down the field. He was blocked by a line of sweaty, stinky teenage guys he knew he wouldn't be able to get around. Scott scanned the field for Isaac, who was obstructed by several Razorbacks. He'd never be able to catch the pass. Scott assessed the field in a split-second, and made a decision. "Stiles!"

The rubber ball sailed through the air and landed safely in Stiles' net. He'd caught it! He'd actually caught it! And then he was running. He had always been a clumsy runner, but his legs were especially sore and stiff, and he could feel the pain blossoming in his side from where Lahey had kicked him the previous night. But he ran. He could feel the other team bearing down on him, like a pack of starving dogs on a pork-chop. The end line was in sight. He just had to get the ball over the end line…

Stiles shot. The ball sailed in a perfect, glorious arc across the sky. Everyone held their breath, and watched as the ball passed over and scored. The buzzer echoed, the Beacon Hills fans went wild with ecstasy, and Stiles was knocked painfully to the ground, eating a mouthful of grass and dirt, as a couple of jersey-ed bodies slammed into him from behind, unable to stop their momentum. Scott helped him up, and patted him on the back. "Great shot, Stiles!"

They would have won anyways – leading by half a dozen points – but Stiles was thrilled to have made such an impressive shot. The Beacon Hills Cyclones gathered around each other, clapping backs and bro-hugging, chest bumping against each other in all their perspiring glory. With this win they had qualified for the regional championships!

There was much congratulating as the boys disappeared into the locker room to shower and dress. Coach was elated – which meant he delightedly tossed his clipboard over his shoulder as he praised them for their win without the usual level of sarcasm and snide remarks. The boys grabbed their duffel bags, and there was talk of pizza, girls, and smuggled beers. They were bombarded outside the school by friends and family, dispersing in all directions. Allison ran up to Isaac, threw her arms around him, and kissed him hard. He blushed, and she laughed. "Congrads! You were amazing!"

Sheriff Stilinski put a hand on Isaac's shoulder, and beamed proudly. "You played a great game! My son, the lacrosse hero." Isaac glanced furtively back at Stiles, who looked down and played with the zipper of his duffle. His wet hair flopped into his eyes, but Isaac could still see the hurt in them. Guilt struck through him sharply.

"Thanks, Dad," the word felt both strange and delicious on his tongue. "But I didn't do it alone."

"You boys all did a great job," Stilinski agreed. "You worked together the way a team should. How about we grab some pizza to celebrate? My treat."

Isaac smiled widely. "That sounds awesome." He glanced to his friends. "How about it?"

Allison happily chirped her availability, and disappeared to find her father to let him know she'd get a drive home from the sheriff. Lydia politely, and Jackson not-so-politely, declined, claiming plans of their own. (Isaac could already practically smell the sex wafting off of them.) Scott looked to his mother, Melissa, and she nodded. "We'd be happy to join you."

"What about you, Stiles?" the sheriff asked.

"Well, I-" A large hand suddenly rested on Stiles' shoulder. The fingers squeezed into his flesh. The touch immediately silenced him and sent a cold shiver down his spine. _Oh, Dad, please help me,_ he thought.

"Stiles and I are going home now. It's getting late, and he has homework to finish."

"Come on, Mitch. I just invited the boys for pizza. We'd love to have Stiles come along. He made an incredible shot tonight. He deserves to do some celebrating with his team mates. You're only young once, right? And you're welcome to join us."

Lahey snorted. "That wasn't skill. It was dumb luck. Stiles couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if he was standing right next to it with his eyes wide open. Come on, we're leaving." Lahey's hand slid from Stiles' shoulder to his upper arm, and he roughly guided the boy away from his friends toward the car before he could utter goodnight. Stiles knew if he looked back, he wouldn't be able to keep the tears inside.

Sheriff Stilinski frowned, watching as Lahey herded his son into their car and drove off. "What an asshole," Melissa declared. Stilinski smiled. He had always admired the woman for her straightforward manner. "Yes," he agreed, turning his attention to the hungry teenagers waiting to be fed. But, try as he might, he couldn't forget the pained look on Stiles' face. And he couldn't help wondering why it bothered him so much.


	10. Chapter 10: Double Date

_An illness in my immediate family (my father) and a new job have prevented me from updating for a long time. Then, to top matters off, the USB flash drive onto which I had saved all my fanfiction accidentally got snapped, and I lost everything I had been working on (so there has also been a delay with my other fics. Particularly 'April's Fool' for which I had written a majority of the final chapter, and which is now gone). I apologize for having been away, but I hope you shall forgive me. I am now working on my stories again, and I hope to update each of them in turn very soon. Please remember to review, my dear friends._

* * *

 **Chapter Ten: Double Date**

"What are you doing tonight?" Isaac leaned casually against the lockers and flashed Allison a charming smile. It still amazed him how easily the expression came to his lips now, how naturally and unforced. Why didn't teenagers in high school smile more often? Didn't they know what they were missing out on?

"I'm going on a double date tonight. And so are you."

"Oh. Where are we going?"

"Bowling." Isaac pouted. Not exactly the kind of romantic date he had in mind: sweaty shoes, bright lighting, loud noises, the cracking of fallen pins. Other people. Allison eyed him knowingly. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"No! I was just…yeah, I totally forgot."

Allison sighed. "Oh, Isaac." She reached for a book from the top shelf of her locker, but Isaac grabbed it.

"Allison." He held her book to his chest, and fixed her with his intense gaze. He had the kind of pleading puppy dog eyes that could melt any girl's heart. "I wanted to spend time with you. Alone. Just the _two_ of us. These last few days…I feel like I'm just being with you for the first time. Who knows what could happen tomorrow or the next day? I want to spend as much time with you as possible. I don't want to share you."

"Oh, babe." Allison put her hand to Isaac's cheek. He was so warm. Why was he speaking like this? The fervor etched into his face told her he was in earnest. "What is this? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just…"

"What?"

"I don't want to lose you."

Allison kissed him. She tugged gently at his lips with hers, then passionately, slipping her tongue between his teeth. He gasped when she finally pulled away. He was breathless. "You'll never lose me. I know they say those kind of promises are hollow, especially coming from teenagers, but what you and I have – it's the real thing."

"But in another life…" Isaac trailed off. If what they had was real, why didn't she love him as Isaac Lahey? Was Isaac Stilinski really that different from the boy he was before?

Allison didn't understand where this sudden doubt was coming from. She grabbed his hand and proclaimed, "Isaac, we'll have a date soon, just us. I'll make it special." The bell rang, signaling the start of class. There was more they needed to discuss, but Allison had to run. "I can't be late. I have an Algebra test. I'll see you at lunch." She planted a quick, sweet peck on his cheek. "Bye. I love you." She had probably told this version of Isaac that a hundred times before, but Isaac Lahey had never heard those words – not from girls, not from his friends, not even from creaky old great aunts who pinched his cheeks and patted his bum on their visits. Certainly never from his father. Allison could never know the hurricane she had caused inside his heart with three simple words.

"I love you too." Isaac called after her. The words rolled seamlessly off his tongue, and he realized with a start that they were true.

 ** _TEENWOLF_**

"What are you doing after school?" Scott slid into his seat beside Isaac in American History. Isaac twirled his pencil casually through his fingers. Even though his heart was still racing, and there were butterflies in his stomach, he tried to play it cool when he said, "I have a date with Allison tonight."

"Oh, right. You guys are going bowling with Jackson and Lydia, right?"

Did everyone in school know his social schedule except Isaac himself? "Yeah. Right. If you had a girlfriend, we could double date sometimes too. Something better than bowling." Isaac was taking a risk, he knew, cheekily fishing for information. In his reality, Scott and Allison had been a hot item until just recently.

"I'm just keeping my options open." Scott actually pouted.

"What about Kira? She's nice – and she's pretty." Scott and Isaac stole glances at the lovely Japanese-American girl three rows ahead. Her thick dark hair piled around her shoulders, and she laughed at a joke Danny had made. The final warning bell rang for class to start.

"So, what are we talking about?" Stiles plopped into his seat in front of Scott. He was wearing a black hoodie and black jeans. The Johnny Cash, Man in Black, vibe didn't suit him. He had more of a plaid personality.

"Girls." "Bowling." Isaac and Scott said at the same time. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"What about you, Stiles? What are you doing tonight?" Scott asked. Isaac looked away; he thought he could guess the answer. Stiles shrugged. He imagined Lahey had a million ridiculous chores for him to do: dust the bannister, beat the rug, clean the refrigerator. Anything to keep him in the house on a Friday night. When it came to his own father, he had always taken the ask-forgiveness-not-permission approach. He had practically lived at the McCall residence. He doubted Mitch Lahey was so lenient.

None of them mentioned the way Lahey had pulled Stiles away from their victory celebration.

"Not much, I guess."

"Why don't you come over? I just got the new 'Zombie Pandemonium' game for X-Box!"

Stiles smiled on his right side. "Sure. Why not?" It seemed like forever since he had pigged out and played a video game with his brother.

"Well, Scott," Isaac teased, "it looks like you have a date tonight after all."

 ** _TEENWOLF_**

The route to Scott's house was so familiar, Stiles could have walked it blindfolded in his sleep. The fern-coloured two-story house, with wrap-around porch and white trim, sat on a green lawn on a quiet street. It was surrounded by tall old trees they had been forbidden to climb as children, and manicured bushes Scott had once dared Stiles to jump out onto from the upstairs window, both wondering if the branches were enough to break his fall. A dare Stiles had accepted - much to Scott's horror (as he had only been bluffing), and which Stiles fulfilled, much to the shock and panic of Melissa McCall as she suddenly saw the boy's body drop from the portico roof, and to the dismay of Sheriff Stilinski, who was called upon to extract and carry his son from bush to hospital, where x-rays revealed a break along the metatarsal bones.

Scott unlocked the door, and kicked off his boots in the front entryway. "My mother's working a late shift," he explained, gesturing Stiles into the house. It was exactly as Stiles remembered: the same worn furniture, the same warm wood, the same cushions on sofas, the same vases with flowers, the same crafty knick-knacks which were Melissa's touch. Yet, something was different. Stiles could feel it before he could see it. The house looked mostly the same, but there – shoved between Scott's converse and Melissa's long jackets in the entry closet – were tiny sparkly shoes and little pink jackets. In the living room, lined up beside the "Star Wars" DVDS and seasons of "Grey's Anatomy" were Disney princess movies. There was a fluffy stuffed elephant poking out of the couch and in the pile, swept out of the way, were several Barbies in various stages of undress. Either Melissa and Scott had developed strange fetishes or…

"Who's the girl in the photos?" The same wall was filled with framed family photos, but on closer inspection, Stiles could see the pictures were different. There were the typical childhood photos of Scott, but in many of the places were Stiles knew he should be Isaac stood instead. (A sharp pain roiled in his stomach at the realization.) There were baby photos of a precious little girl, much cuter than Scott had been at that edge, and she progressed in age through the pictures. The largest photo dominating the wall was of Melissa, sitting in a chair with a wide smile, Scott standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and the little girl perched in the woman's lap.

"That's my sister, Stephanie."

"You have a sister?"

"Well half-sister, but what does the 'half' matter? She's with her dad, Peter, this week."

"Peter? Peter _Hale?_ "

"Who else? He and Mom went on a couple dates a few years back, and Stephie was the result. Mom hates his guts, but he adores Steph and she adores him. Mom said she would regret the whole experience, except she got my sister out of it." Scott chuckled to himself. "She admitted she always wanted a girl."

Stiles considered the photo again. A sister? He couldn't believe it. This was a _major_ change. Apparently in this reality, a lot more had been affected than just their parentage. Scott waited for him at the bottom of the staircase; he eyed Stiles suspiciously. "But you already know all that. You've met Steph before."

"Right. She's just so much bigger than I remember. How old is she now."

"Four."

"Wow. They grow up so fast." Stiles touched his fingers to the little girl in the glass. His heart panged painfully in his chest. Scott was watching him closely, one eyebrow raised. After a minute, Stiles turned and clapped his friend on the back. He covered over the awkwardness with a laugh. "Besides, I like hearing about your mom's exploits. She's a nice-looking woman. Total MILF material."

Scott groaned. "Ugh, don't say that!" Stiles laughed again, louder and genuine, and the two boys trooped up the stairs into Scott's room. Which, aside from the crayon drawing taped to his wall, was exactly as it had always been.

The boys played 'Zombie Pandemonium' for four hours, pausing only to grab a 6 pack of Pepsi from the fridge and order a meat-lovers pizza. They tipped the delivery guy with a can of soda and invaluable advice for surviving the zombie apocalypse. Scott laid on his stomach on the bed, hanging anxiously over the end and strangling his console. Stiles leaned back in a multi-colored bean-bag chair pushed against the bed. Periodically he had to lean to the side to avoid being hit in the head by Scott's frantic elbow.

It was getting dark. Stiles had just shot two zombies through the head with a single bullet using only his right hand, saving Scott's character from certain annihilation, as his left hand crammed pizza into his mouth. They had now successfully entered a new bonus level. "Dude, that was awesome! Remind me why we don't play video games together more often?"

Stiles shrugged; crumbs tumbled from his lips into his lap. "I guess we just don't spend a ton of time together."

"I guess Isaac is usually over a lot, and it's not often we hang out, the three of us. You guys like each other, right? Why don't you two ever hang out?" Stiles shrugged again – the safest response to any question. Truthfully, he didn't know. In his own life, Scott was the common element in their friendship. Stiles didn't know Isaac that well, and it had never crossed his mind that he might want to get to know Isaac better, or what to hang out with him one-on-one. "Anyway, in the next 'Zombie Pandemonium' tournament, I want you on my team!" Scott pounded Stiles good-naturedly on the back – as jocks are wont to do.

Stiles grimaced; he bit his lower lip. Scott hadn't hit him hard, but the heel of his palm had centered on a section of dark bruised skin under Stiles' shirt. Scott frowned in concern, the expression down-turning his perfectly-curved lips and solemn eyes. "Are you alright?" Instinctively, Scott reached out to inspect the wound.

Stiles stood out of his grasp. "I'm fine. I, uh, just didn't realize what time it was. I should go home now. I have some stuff to do before Lah– …my father gets home."

 ** _TeenWolf_**

The ball rolled in a perfect line down the lane and toppled all the pins with a great clattering. _Strike!_ In baseball, a strike was bad, but Lydia had just bowled three consecutive strikes and she was winning by a healthy margin, leaving the other three in her dust. When they had first arrived, she had played coy, having Jackson put his arms around her to show her how to hold the ball, lightly tossing the ball, and giggling demurely when it went into the gutter or stopped half-way down the lane and Jackson was forced to retrieve it. But it wasn't long before her competitive nature took over, and Lydia played to her full ability. She had transformed from kitten to tiger. Her pose was perfect, her aim straight. _Crack, crack, crack!_ The pins bowed down to her superiority.

"Why do I feel like I've been hustled?" Isaac asked, as Allison totaled their scores for the game. "She's like a tiny Amazon in high-heels."

Allison smiled. "You should see her ice-skate."

Lydia put her flawlessly manicured hand to her neck and brushed her strawberry-blond hair back in one elegant, fluid motion. _Jeez,_ Isaac thought, _she's like a walking commercial._ She plopped down onto the bench beside Jackson. She smiled. "Anyone up for another round?"

Allison and Isaac denied the offer; Jackson pouted and crossed his arms over his chest. He mumbled something under his breath, his tone whiny and annoyed. "Aw, don't be that way, babe." Lydia snuggled up to him, and placed her mouth to his ear. She half-nibbled, half-murmured; Isaac couldn't hear her words, but whatever she'd said snapped Jackson out of his sore-loser pity-party. Lydia sat back and smiled smugly, pleased with herself. "How about a game of pool then?" She chirped contentedly.

Isaac glanced at Allison, but she shook her head. Pool was not a game you wanted to play with Lydia Martin. "I wouldn't mind another round of bowling, but how about we eat first? I'm starving." His new lean, healthy body always seemed to be hungry. "Chili cheese fries and Cola?"

"Can you make mine diet?" Lydia asked.

"Sure."

"I'll come with you." Allison hooked her arm through Isaac's. They joined the queue in front of the food counter near the front of the building. The air was ripe with nacho, cheese, and deep-fried deliciousness. "I know it isn't the romantic night you wanted, but you're having fun, right?"

Isaac grinned. "I really am. Who would have thought?" While he still would have preferred alone time with Allison, it was nice being out with friends, doing an activity as simple as bowling, eating greasy food someone else made. Evenings like these were exceedingly rare for him. "Fun" was not in Mitch Lahey's vocabulary.

Isaac purchased fries and sodas for the group. Allison began to object, but Isaac told her he wanted to. He sincerely desired to do something nice for his friends; she graciously conceded. Isaac balanced two orders of fries, and Lydia and Jackson's cups. "Try a sip of this," Allison offered, holding up one of her full hands. Isaac leaned forward, his lips puckering, and attempted to maneuver the straw with his tongue. A lot of work for a quick taste of a specialty flavor Coca Cola was testing. Isaac screwed up his nose. "That's disgusting." Allison giggled and ran her hand down Isaac's arm. Her delicate touch sent tingles down his spine and into his stomach. He nearly dropped the food he was carrying.

When they reached their friends, Lydia was sitting straight, picking at her chipped nail polish. Her head was high and front facing in indifference. Only Allison could discern the clench of her best friend's jaw and the tightness around her eyes. Jackson was stretched out, his long legs in the way, his arms draped over the bench. "All I'm saying is, I don't know why Coach doesn't just cut him from the team. He's not even good enough for second string!"

"He scored the winning shot last game."

"Dumb luck. Even a broken clock still, uh, ticks."

Isaac laid the food on the table. He and Allison sat down, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "What are we talking about?"

Lydia reached forward for a fry, and rolled her eyes. "Jackson, the saying is 'even a broken clock is right twice a day.' We're discussing Stiles. Jackson thinks he should be cut from the team-"

"The guy has _zero_ talent-"

"But I think Stiles has a lot of potential. He's kinda cute too," Lydia mumbled as she bit into her sliver of potato.

"Give me a break! Coach just feels sorry for him. That's why he keeps him on the team."

"Why would he feel sorry for him?" Allison asked. She took a sip of her soda. Isaac shifted uncomfortably. Allison questioned him with her eyes. He did _not_ want to be having this conversation; he didn't want to think about Stiles and what he may or may not be.

"C'mon. The guy's a total loser. I wouldn't be surprised if someday he brought a gun to school and started shooting everyone up."

"Jackson!" Allison frowned; Lydia subtly slid down the bench, as though attempting to distance herself from the opinions of her boyfriend.

"What?" Jackson ripped the lid off his soda and took a gulp. "The loner-vibe. The dark hoodies. Everyone knows his old man knocks him around."

Allison, Lydia, and Isaac stared at him in shock. "What?"

"We didn't know that."

"What are you guys – blind? I thought it was obvious. The shuffling walk, the long sleeves, the unexplained bruises, the secretiveness."

Concern watered Lydia's eyes, but she tried to keep her voice neutral when she said: "That doesn't prove anything. How do you know his dad hits him?"

"Everyone in the neighborhood knows." Jackson, in fact, lived only four houses down and across from the Laheys'. "You can hear Lahey beating him from down the street. Sometimes he doesn't even bother closing the curtains."

Lydia's bottom lip quivered, and she looked away. "Poor Stiles."

"If Stiles had any balls at all, he'd fight back. If he's not going to stand up like a man, he deserves what coming from him." Isaac heard his father's words in Jackson's voice.

"Isaac?" Allison placed her hand on her boyfriend's arm. His fists were balled at his sides, and he was shaking. Fire blazed in his eyes. He was staring at Jackson. "Are you okay?"

"You knew?" Isaac's voice was quiet, level; a false calm before the storm. "You knew he was hitting his son, and you didn't _do_ anything? You didn't _say_ anything?"

Jackson shrugged. "Why should I?"

Isaac snapped. Allison saw his restraint break a moment too late. Jackson raised his cup to his lips, and Isaac smashed it and him onto the floor. The two boys tumbled backwards over the bench. Pepsi spilled everywhere. Jackson's momentary shock paralyzed him, and Isaac was able to get in a couple rough punches. He had never wanted to hurt anyone before – not even when his own father abused him – but right now he was angry enough to kill Jackson.

Adrenaline coursed through Jackson's veins, and his fight-or-flight response kicked in. In his case, it was always fight. He grabbed Isaac, and suddenly the two were rolling, wrestling, through punches. Flesh smacked flesh, and drops of blood dripped onto the floor. Lydia screamed; Allison attempted to pull the boys apart, and was nearly hit. Lydia pulled her back, and all the girls could do was watch in horror, until the manager and a couple bystanders finally broke up the fight. It took three of them to finally pull Isaac off Jackson. He was livid; a feral animal.

Jackson wiped at his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. "Come on, Lydia. Let's get out of here!" Lydia shook her head and stepped back. Allison put her arm protectively around her friend's shoulder. "Fine! Bitch." He stormed out of the bowling alley; they heard his Porsche squeal out of the parking lot.

"Isaac." Allison had never seen him act like this; it both concerned and frightened her. He was acting like a totally different person. Sure, Jackson was an asshole, and he deserved a good whack, but Isaac had flown into an all-out rage. She didn't understand where the sudden violence had come from. For a moment, she had really thought…

Isaac wouldn't meet her eyes. He was still trembling, but tried to hide it. "Come on, girls. I'll take you home in the Jeep." So much for date night.


	11. Chapter 11: Regrets

**Chapter Eleven: Regrets**

"Scott, what are you doing here?" Melissa McCall's face instantly brightened as she looked up from the nurses' station and saw her son step off the elevator. Then, in the next instant, her forehead creased in worry. "Is everything okay? Is Steph okay?"

"Everything's fine." Scott held up his hands to show her the Styrofoam cup of coffee and paper bag he held. "I just thought you'd appreciate something hot to eat." Melissa's face softened into a thankful smile.

"What a good son." She came around the desk, and patted his shoulder gently, letting her hand briefly cradle his cheek, before accepting the food from him. She peeked into the fast food bag, the mouth-watering yet somewhat nauseating stench of deep-fried food filling the air. "A grilled chicken wrap and a side of onion rings. Not exactly nutritious, but yummy. Thank you."

Scott felt a pang of guilt strike his chest, as his mother locked her loving eyes on his. He shared the same warm umber eye color. How could something so simple cause such appreciate and pleasure? "No problem. How's your shift going?" Melissa worked as a nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. She was a Registered Nurse, usually assigned to work the third floor with recovering patients, but she had also worked in the Palliative Care Ward and as a triage nurse in Emergency. Compared to the long nights she had spent with suffering souls as they drew their last breaths, and the assemblage of weird, upsetting, and sometimes just down-right stupid cases that came through the ER, her job now was a walk in the park.

"Well, the man in 311 vomited on me during a toilet transfer, and the woman in 305 refused to take her medication and accused me of being a witch – I'm not saying that politely for the other word either; she actually thinks we're magical sorcerers trying to poison her – but other than that, it's been a relatively slow night."

Scott occasionally forgot how much of a hero his mother was. It was during moments like this, when her hair was flat and there were paunchy purple bags under her eyes, when there were unidentifiable stains on her scrubs and she smelled of disinfectant and bodily fluids, and she still managed to wear a smile and treat everyone with patience and kindness, that Scott was reminded how incredible Melissa was. He was sincerely blessed.

"Your definition of a slow night is different from mine."

Melissa laughed. "You want to share some of these rings with your old mom?"

"Sure." Melissa motioned Scott to follow her behind the nurses' station. In back, there was a simple break room with a chrome kitchen table, four chairs, a refrigerator that clanked loudly, a microwave, and a stained coffee percolator that had seen a lot of use. As Scott came around the desk, a persistent beeping began. A little red light on the console flashed. The number 305 was printed above it. Down the hallway, Scott could see a matching red light blinking over a doorway. Melissa sighed.

"Here." She handed Scott the bag and her coffee. "You get a couple plates out of the cupboard, and I'll be right back." She disappeared into the room down the hall, and the red light ceased blinking. Scott could hear her familiar, soothing tones carried in the silence. He set the food on the counter, and returned to the nurses' desk. He glanced around carefully, making sure no one was watching. This was working out better than he could have planned. He thought he would have had to make excuses to get his mother to step away, but an opportunity had presented itself. Almost as if he was meant to be doing this.

Scott knew that what he was doing was wrong – illegal, actually – but he needed to know. Stiles' behavior at his house this afternoon had sent alarm bells ringing through his head. Pieces were coming together to form an image he hadn't even know had been a puzzle in the first place. But Stiles hadn't been himself lately – he'd been different, in a way Scott couldn't quite define – and with the spectacle Lahey made at the lacrosse game the other night, Scott was fearful there was truth in the theory that had been formulating in his mind all evening.

Scott typed Stiles' full name into the computer, and waited while the results loaded. He drummed his fingers against the desk. _Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong._ Best case scenario: he found nothing, and he wasted an hour and was out ten bucks for treating his mom. Worst case scenario...

The screen blinked as new items filled the screen; all of Stiles' medical history unfolding in front of Scott's curious eyes. Stiles had been born into this hospital to Patricia and Mitch Lahey – a healthy 8 lbs, 4 ounces, with no complications. The first nine years of Stiles' life contained only infrequent hospital visits – regular check-ups with a family doctor, a case of chicken pox when he was seven, and strep throat at the age of nine. Then, starting the age of ten, more hospital visits: second-degree burns caused by scalding, a broken arm, a gash on his upper thigh requiring twenty-seven stitches, a hairline fracture, and a bad case of dehydration. Then, after the age of thirteen, Stiles' visits skyrocketed: broken bones, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, a cracked vertebrae, a sprained ankle, and a skull fracture – Stiles had even been admitted to the psych ward two years ago after a failed suicide attempt – an incident he had failed to mention to his friend.

Scott's stomach tightened in a queasy knot.

It wasn't normal. A young man of Stiles' age shouldn't haven't suffered that many injuries, even if he was a lacrosse player. Scott double-checked the dates: in fact, most of the injuries had occurred _before_ Stiles had even joined the team.

Scott composed a mental check list, running through his memories of Stiles. Suddenly, there was a sinister blackness, a darker edge he hadn't noticed before. The thin excuses, laughed off with a smile that never reached Stiles' eyes; early nights and denied invitations; in all the years they had been friends, Scott had never once been invited into the Lahey house. He cross-referenced the first of Stiles' frequent hospital visits. They had started shortly after the death of his mother from breast cancer, and had increased around the time his brother Camden had been killed in Afghanistan. That couldn't be a coincidence.

The unexplained bruises and injuries Stiles chalked up to household accidents and lacrosse practice injuries – sure Stiles was probably the clumsiest person Scott had even known, but how could he have been ignorant enough to accept this excuse time after time? – the unexplained mood swings and crippling depression Stiles sometimes experienced; his poor grades and attendance in school, despite being a remarkably intelligent kid; a reluctance to participate in the activities other Beacon Hills kids loved - ; the complete lack of self-confidence, usually joked away in a self-derisive manner, as if Stiles never expected anything good from himself. He couldn't see his own potential. He couldn't see what Scott saw.

Scott had always found Stiles self-depreciating, his queries as to why Scott wanted to be his friend, tedious and irritating in their repetitiveness. Now, he realized, there were deeply rooted issues from which Stiles' behaviors stemmed. He really thought he wasn't good enough, because instead of the love and affirmation he should have been receiving at home, Stiles' father was…

Scott thought he was going to throw-up. How could he not have known, not have seen? Stiles was being abused – he had no doubt now – and had been for years. His guilt began to fester into anger. His fists clenched tightly, his fingernails biting into his flesh and breaking skin. If Scott could see the implications just by reading Stiles' medical file, how could the nurses and doctors who had attended him have missed this? How could no one have said anything? Surely they must have noticed. Flimsy excuses to rationalize repeated afflictions. How does a fourteen year old break his wrist in the same place on _three_ separate occasions?

"Okay, Una, you just call me if you need anything else." Melissa's voice carried up the hall. Scott quickly closed out of the screens he had open, and jumped up from the computer. He ducked back into the staff kitchenette, knocking over a stack of napkins.

"Now, where were…Scott, are you okay, honey?" Melissa stepped toward her son; his face was ashen and his eyes troubled. He was on the floor, frantically grabbing at the loose tissues. She bent down beside him, and moved to put her hand on his shoulder, but he stepped back out of her grasp. He righted himself, and tossed the napkins onto the counter.

"Mom, I suddenly remembered I need to go, uh, do something."

"Are you feeling okay? You look ill?" Melissa's hand flitted to his forehead, checking for a temperature, but Scott sidestepped around her.

"I feel fine. I just need to go. I'll see you later."

"Don't stay out too late!" Melissa called after him, as Scott pushed open the heavy steel door to the stairwell. She heard his heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs. The elevator dinged and coughed a couple bedraggled people onto the floor. She wondered what could have been so important that he hadn't even had time to wait for the elevator.

Scott burst through the front entrance. The night air was chilly, and shocked his heaving lungs. He ran to his lime-green dirt bike – he had worked extra hours for Deacon and saved up all summer to buy it himself. He crashed onto it, nearly toppling the bike. He pushed the helmet onto his head, and kick started the bike. He didn't realize his hand was clenching the clutch, and the bike suddenly shot forward. Scott narrowly avoided falling off and causing an accident, landing himself in the hospital he was desperately attempting to escape. His mind was racing. _It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true_.

Scott needed to clear his head. He needed to drive and drive. Lose himself to the speed and the whipping of the wind, the metal monster rumbling between his legs. Lose track of time and place and just forget, even only for a few minutes. This was it, one of those defining moments in life that changed everything. One of those moments he wished he could undo, could unlearn, and yet he couldn't it owed it to Stiles. Nothing would be the same as it was _before;_ there would only exist the _after_ – and all its consequences and implications.

With this new knowledge, Scott wondered: what the hell was he supposed to do now?

 ** _TeenWolf_**

The windows were dark and the Jeep was parked in the driveway when Sheriff Stilinski arrived home. He unlocked the front door and stepped cautiously inside. "Isaac?" he called tentatively. "Are you home?" Without removing his boots or jacket, the sheriff walked further into the house, his hand hovering instinctively over his holster. "Isaac?"

There were no lights on in the living room, but the curtains were still open. The moon light glowed through the open window, seeping into a shining puddle on the hard-wood floor. A shadowed silhouette sat hunched forward on the couch, making soft sounds from deep within its throat. "Son?"

Something crunched under the sheriff's foot.

Stilinski fumbled to turn on the table lamp. The warm light suddenly erupted in the dark room, blinding the teenager. Isaac threw his hand in front of his face. Sheriff Stilinski looked to see what he had stepped on, and was surprised and upset to see an empty crushed beer can. There were three more empty cans littering the coffee table, and an open can sitting on the floor. The familiar overripe, yeasty smell permeated the air and made his stomach churn.

The sheriff momentarily wondered how Isaac had secured the alcohol. He didn't approve of underage drinking, especially from his own son. Who in Beacon Hills would have the audacity to help the sheriff's son purchase beer? He worried this was going to come back to bite Isaac in the ass.

"Isaac, you know I…" the sheriff trailed off. Isaac raised his pale face to look at him; his eyes were wet and puffy, his cheeks tear-stained and crimson. Snot trickled from his nose like a leaky faucet. His hands trembled. Sheriff Stilinksi sat down next to his son, the old couch springs groaning under his additional weight. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Isaac open his mouth to explain, but the words wouldn't come out right. They jumbled together in confusion, punctuated by sobs and gasps for breath. "Woah, okay. Slow down. Take a deep breath – in and out." Stilinski demonstrated with his own breathing, motioning for Isaac to match his inhales and exhales with his own. Once his breathing had successfully steadied and he had calmed down, the sheriff repeated his question. Isaac's shoulders slumped. Tears began to drip from the corners of his eyes again. The sheriff placed his big hand comfortingly between Isaac's shoulders blades; his skin was warm, and it helped Isaac keep his calm when he said, "I think I've done something horrible. Really horrible."


End file.
